


stay thy mind, and all the rest

by mc_dude



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, a tremendous amount of brooding, a tremendous amount of gay longing, maedhros' steward stares into the camera, seriously maedhros come down from there, vaguely touch-starved, you'll catch a cold and your lungs cant deal with that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23020912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mc_dude/pseuds/mc_dude
Summary: The sons of Fëanor are well renown for their many unrivaled qualities. For Makalaurë, his voice, Tyelcormo his beasts, and Curufinwë his father’s skill. For Maitimo, firstborn of Fëanáro, he has his name, and his beauty.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 29
Kudos: 123





	stay thy mind, and all the rest

In the North, past the highest peaks of the Ered Gorgoroth, and the plains of Arg-galen, Thangorodrim looms. It is a gash across the barren landscape, a wound on the horizon, its spiny form dark and foreboding in the fading of Tilion’s pale gleam. Always it’s peak is obscured by a dark cloud; he remembers it well. With every inhale, poisonous fumes riddled with ash, and with every exhale, a hacking cough wet with blood. The rock would sometimes burn against his back, its insides churning as liquid fire, the center of a hot forge. An endless source of fuel for Morgoth’s army.

Now, however, the forges are quiet, and the mountains bleak and unremarkable against the last lingering of the night’s sky.

There will be no attack, not this day.

He allows some of the tension to drain from his shoulders, the fur of his cloak settling around his neck with a soft hush. A gentle breeze blows from the North, its temperament mild but with the promise of another harsh winter lurking beneath. Already he has triple-checked their stores, and then once more, for good measure. They will be well prepared, whatever awaits them.

Below, the rattle of armor sounds. He leans out over the parapet, elbow settling onto the cold stone to spy the changing of the guards. He recognizes Varilëenil, long in service to his father and now to him, and her partner Soicien by the green plume of her helm. For her, he knows only what he observes: weak with her offhand, but deadly with a bow. Both of them have proven loyal to his family and to their cause. The wall will be well guarded.

He makes for his quarters– there is much to do before the party arrives, and he must double check the modified guard rotation for the duration of their stay– when Soicien laughs, light as a bell, and settles her hand on the back of Varilëenil’s neck, gently knocking their foreheads together with a smile.

Fingers drag across his neck, then, colder than ice.

 _So resilient, little King_ , the wind whispers. He tries to jerk away but is bound fast by his chains, the cold steel biting into skin long rubbed raw. _Such strength of will! To resist, even now._ Fingers tangle in his hair to tug his head backwards, and a foul breath ghosts hotly over the tip of his ear, its stench sickly sweet as the first inkling of decay among the last of summer's harvest. He cannot move, cannot think, cannot even scream, only shake as blood leaks from his skin, as the fabric of his body is unmade and reformed into a mockery of itself. _There is much to learn, you see. And such a fine specimen! Yes, I think I'll keep you–_

“My lord?”

It’s Varilëenil, her head arched upward, smile slipping from her lips. Maedhros stares at Soicien’s hand. Still it lies on her neck– a casual touch, a sign of affection– and he swallows down the bile caught halfway in his throat with a grimace.

He manages a nod, turns, and does not look back, ignoring the trembling of his limbs, and the familiar unfamiliarity of his own skin.

–––

The Lord of Himring is not to be touched.

His servants know this. His people know as well, though not by any decree. They know it by the puckered scar that drags up the corner of his mouth, by the shine of the burn across his right eye, by the cold steel of gold plated prosthetic; a map as plain to read as any ever drawn.

He prefers it thus. Anything that is not furthering their advantage in this war must be cast aside. A squeeze of the shoulder, a clasping of hands in warm greeting, an embrace between two long parted– distractions, all of them. Perhaps once there was a time when the first son of Fëanor might catch a speculative eye with the right tilt of his head, where treaties might be negotiated with a clever tongue in close quarters, but that is long past. He must adapt to his new circumstances. There is no time to retrain his mangled flesh to discern the intent behind a touch. They are at war.

 _And the war is what matters_ , he reminds himself as he maps the path of the party descending from banks of the Celon with his gaze, banners of blue and silver snapping briskly in the morning's chill. A strange ache settles deep within his chest as he catches sight of a familiar head of braids, golden clasps bouncing to the gait of his horse. He rubs at his sternum with a frown. Perhaps he's taken ill. It is not unexpected, with the cold settling in and his lungs in the state that they are, but that too he has no time for.

The party is making good time. They will be here within the hour if they hold to their current pace. He descends from atop the lower parapet, shifting well out of the way of the incoming guard. His knee pops as he does so, the nerves pinching and sending fire up his thigh; an old pain, one long ignored. He needn’t have bothered; the guard side-steps to his right, giving him a wide breadth with a perfunctory nod. He grinds his teeth against the pain, but continues onward without so much as a stumble.

His people do not love him, this he knows. The Prince his people knew in Valinor is long dead, had been dead truthfully many years before he had fallen into the clutches of the enemy. Since the moment his sword was stained dark with Teleri blood, the only namesake left to him was his father's, until that too was discarded with the burden of his crown.

No, the enemy had not killed Maitimo, or Nelyafinwë. That he did himself, with his own actions, and his own sword. Maitimo was who his people loved, who all now try to remember instead of the unsightly creature who now looms above them and calls himself–

"My Lord," a voice calls. He spins on the icy stones of the lower wall, cloak whipping around behind him, hand tight on his sword hilt.

It is only his steward, however. In her hand is a steaming goblet, one she offers him with a dip of her head. He tries to keep the suspicion off his face as he peers into the cup, carefully avoiding her fingers as he accepts it. There would be very little point in poisoning him here and now, and Arderthor has never given him cause to suspect before, but he makes sure to give the beverage a subtle sniff while her head is still bowed. The enemy has many spies, and where better to place one than deep within his own household? But it is only mulled wine, still piping hot. His fingers lose some of their tension as the warmth seeps into the crooked set of his joints.

"Best to keep warm, m’lord,” his steward says, stepping to his left with her hands behind her waist. She doesn't meet his eye, instead stares somewhere past his shoulder. “The scouts report a storm brewing near Ladros. It should be upon us by early morrow.”

A storm. He eyes the movement of horses making their way up the mountainside. Fingon’s mount is recognizable even at so great a distance, her silver armor brightly polished and grey mane braided and threaded with gold. The air already bites with cold; the gap between his false insert and roof of his mouth sends a spike of pain through his gums with every breath.

“Whatever additional blankets we have in each guest room, double them,” he commands after a moment. “And see that the fires as well stocked.”

“Already done, m’lord,” Arderthor says, and if there is a hint of smugness in her tone, he ignores it. He glances back towards the horses in the distance.

“Have the guards received their modified schedules?"

"They have, m'lord," says Arderthor, and then she hesitates. "Only–"

"Yes?"

"Well, the shifts are rather–" she pauses, as if searching for the right word– "there seems to be some overlap. Some of the guards mentioned it with, ah, polite interest."

The horses have reached the base of the pass; a cloud of dust rises swiftly out behind. "The shifts are perfectly in order, I assure you," he says, good eye narrowed as he tries to spy who it is that Fingon has brought with him. He has vetted them already, of course, but ceaselessly does the Enemy strive to gain footholds in his lands, and he will not have a thrall or shape-changer slip through his gates through any negligence of his own.

"Of course, my Lord,” she says, and if she sounds as if she’s humoring him, it’s only because she knows not the horrors of the Enemy, and that ignorance is something he will fight to protect.

“Thank you, that will be all,” he says, and nods in dismissal. Arderthor bows again and backs away down the outer stair, feet heavy against the stone. She has an unusually heavy gait for an elf. He listens intently, waiting until her footsteps are faint before swirling his wine and taking a tentative sip.

 _No, my people do not love me,_ he thinks, turning back towards the incoming party as the warmth seeps down his throat. _Nor should they, after what I have led them to._ But they do respect him, and some perhaps even fear him. And they will follow him into battle, which is all that matters in the end. He does not need a pretty face to fight this war.

He takes another sip of his wine, and waits.

–––

“Open the gates,” he commands. The guards hurry to obey, and the doors groan outwards, the portcullis’ spikes glistening with ice as they are wrenched from the half-frozen earth. Horses soon barrel through the entrance into the courtyard, the sound of hooves and rustling armor echoing off the chiseled stone.

Fingon leads the charge, of course he does, his horse prancing and rearing her head in an excitement that seems to mirror her master, for he all but leaps from his horse’s back, and suddenly, he stands before him at last.

Too often in their youth had he been caught entranced by Fingon’s beauty; a habit he has long tried and failed to rid himself of. Now proves to be no exception. Fingon is resplendent in his armor of polished silver, his gorget inlaid with blue sapphires that glint in the morning sun, and though his throat has been well soothed by the warmth of his wine, when Fingon meets his gaze all words desert him, and his mouth feels as dry as any of his days atop the Mountain.

“My Lord,” he finally manages, as loud as he can make it. It echoes over the top of the walls, and his people fall silent. The unbridled delight he sees in Fingon’s eyes would cheer even the most desolate, and it pierces through the cloud of unease about his heart like an arrow. He drops to his knee, and bows his head.

“Himring is yours.”

The ground is cold against the leather of his high boot. He stares intently at the silver sabaton before him, cataloging every aspect of its forging that make it distinctly Noldor, and uniquely Fingon’s, and no other’s. He hears the faint clattering of Fingon’s hair beads above him. The sound does something to settle him as his cropped hair falls light against his cheekbone and the morning’s breeze blows cool over the bare skin of the back of his neck.

Fingon steps toward him, a harsh sound of metal against stone. A warmth he feels then, hovering just above the crown of his head. For a moment he thinks to reach out and grasp the hand of his Lord, to kiss the back of his hand as is befitting a loyal vassal, but he is a cowardly thing, so he remains still until Fingon’s hand is safely back at his side. He lets out a long breath through his nose, hiding his wince as the ache in his chest returns with a fervor. Perhaps the wine was poisoned after all.

“Rise,” commands his Prince, and he did not lie when he proclaimed Fingon his Lord, so he obeys, ignoring the groaning of his limbs. Fingon casts his gaze along him, head to toe. He resists the urge to fidget under his inspection, instead admiring the way the pale morning’s light illuminates Fingon’s skin a rich sepia. A new trinket is threaded tightly into the end of one of his braids, something silver and twisting. An offering from a new admirer, surely.

Fingon nods, just the once, and then takes a step back. He wonders what Fingon searches for. New scars? The thinness of his face? If his remaining limbs are still in tact?

 _Or perhaps_ _he looks for his old friend_ , he thinks, _and must now remind himself of the poor imitation he has salvaged from the clutches of the enemy._

“We are grateful for your hospitality, and that of your people,” says Fingon, and when he speaks it has none of the hesitancy he once had in Tirion. Here in Beleriand, he speaks as a commander; the son of a King. It suits him well.

“And not a moment too soon!” Fingon continues. “A storm moves south over Aglon, as I’m sure you well know. The Ice was all but biting at our heels.” A flinch, carefully concealed. “Alas, its clouds are dark, and its reach stretches far across the plains to the North. I fear our visit might be prolonged,” he adds with a regret that would seem sincere but for the way his eyes glint with amusement. “I am very sorry to impose on you like this,” Fingon adds, and smiles so wide his dimples nearly reach his eyes. Maedhros resists the urge to roll his eyes, but only barely.

“It is never an imposition to host our Prince,” he replies smoothly, and Fingon’s smile falters as though trying not to laugh. “Stay as long as it pleases you.” His people will not mind in the least, of that he is certain. It is not a glamorous life, guarding the East, and the Noldor are a social people. News from Hithlum, however mundane or dreary, will warm them far more succinctly than fire or blanket. _And_ , he thinks as Fingon first speaks to the stablemaster, and then his men, hands twisting his braids into a bun, _there is no finer messenger, surely._

“Now, dearest cousin,” says Fingon as he strides up the steps to where he now stands, away from earshot of his men. “Lead me to where there is a warm fire and a goblet of wine, and forever I shall be indebted to you.”

“That’s all it takes? It’s a wonder you bothered with the Eagle at all when a blanket and a swig from your flask would have sufficed.”

“Yes, well,” Fingon sniffs, peeling the gloves from his fingers as he walks. “We were running out of words for our Songs, if truth be told. Fishing feathers from my hair is a small price to pay to be a source of creative inspiration for our people.”

Maedhros places his hand on his chest. “Such noble inclinations. The harpers are indebted to you as well, I see. Is it they who have silvered your braid, in payment for their verse?”

Fingon pauses a moment, fingers brushing the end of his braid. “Alas, no! This was a gift from one of the Naugrim, if you must know.” He grins. “I say gift, but really she looked quite offended at the quality of my beads and all but forced them upon me. My guard still will not let me hear the end of it.”

“Perhaps she thought them too plain for so noble a face.”

“More likely she thought it might distract from my smooth chin. Her beard was tucked long into her belt, and if you think my braids ostentatious, you should have heard her approach into Eithel Sirion; certainly the guards did, and from a week’s travel away!”

Maedhros cannot help but smile at the sound of Fingon’s laughter, careful of the way it pulls the skin of his cheek. The hall is bustling with both servant and guard, but they give their Lords a wide breadth, and they move unhindered through the throng. Fingon falls into place besides him, no more than an arm’s length away.

Though not for lack of trying, there are some things the enemy could not touch. Memories, clutched tight against his fëa, so close that poisonous Songs could not touch them; the brightness of Fingon’s smile, the rich timber of his voice, the sweeping curve of his eyelashes. Other things he has forgotten, and is glad to be reminded of. Fingon’s presence brings life to his dull halls in a way no memory could, a tapestry of color to adorn plain cut stone, and so glad of his company he is that, for a moment, he is overcome by the urge to throw an arm about his shoulders as he used to, back when the Trees yet shone and the concept of war had not entered into their darkest nightmares. He looks at him now, at the soft white fur of his cloak, and at the neat bundle of braids twisted into a bun at the top of his head, and his fingers itch at his side.

It would not be inappropriate if he were to reach out, then. Fingon is his liege lord, yes, but he was his friend long before that. Despite his best efforts, Fingon will not see sense and be rid of him, so he can be expected to take certain liberties with his person. Surely it would not be so difficult to squeeze his arm as he used to, to perhaps tug on his braid, or even clasp his hand in fond greeting?

 _He would not have minded it, before_ , he thinks, and then freezes, smile slipping from his lips.

 _Before!_ How foolish a thought. Of course Fingon would not have minded before; before Alqualondë, and Losgar, and before the Ice and everything after. As if he would now welcome the affections of the man who condemned him! A man who is barely a shell of his former self, who jumps at every perceived shadow and flinches at the thought of another's touch. His people truly have the right of it– better to avoid, better to keep a healthy distance, and then some. Even now, in the midst of the busy passageway towards the guest rooms, they part like a wave upon shore; none will risk getting to close.

“You’ve gone quiet. Is all well?”

“Of course,” Maedhros responds at once, before the thought could even form in his mind. Fingon looks at him, eyes narrowed. That ache has returned, this time settled right behind his lungs. He makes sure to keep his breath even, lest Fingon suspect he has some new illness that he must see to.

“Here we are,” he announces, hiding his annoyance with Fingon and with himself behind opening the door to the guest suite. It’s well warm inside, and Maedhros is relieved to feel it.

“Yes, I have been here before, you know,” Fingon drawls, throwing himself on the bed, boots and all.

“I wasn’t sure if you remembered. The walls here are very high, and I’m sure for a person of your stature they can look quite–”

He swats aside the thrown pillow with all due stoicism. Fingon has propped himself up on the bed, and if one thing has not changed it is the expression he makes when he’s annoyed: lips pursed, brows drawn straight with a small divot between them. Fingon sits a little higher, and his sleeves pull tight around his arms. Maedhros looks away, thumbing a scratch discovered on the leather of his belt.

“If you’re quite done, I believe there was the promise of wine.”

“Yes, you bartered for it quite cheaply, if I recall,” he says, grateful for the distraction as he reaches for the bottle on the shelf. He presents the glass to Fingon with a bow. “Your beverage, my Lord. And look! One for myself, so you may keep your debt safely amongst your person.” He takes a long sip to illustrate his point. Fingon laughs, and joins him.

“Ah, but that does quench my thirst after so long a ride. We started from Arossiach this morning, did you know?”  
  
“Arossiach!” Maedhros exclaims. “What dire need drove you at such a pace, I wonder? The promise of tonight’s _carnisulpa_ perhaps?”

“ _Carnisulpa!_ ” Fingon groans. “How long it’s been since last I stained my lips with such a delicacy! But no, 'tis not so.” He takes another sip of his wine. “I awoke the whole company this morning ere Arien graced the sky with her Light, for I knew that if we rode hard I should reunite with a friend whom has been dearly missed.”`

Maedhros smiles, and the warmth he felt earlier settles back over him like a thick woolen shroud. “Your poor horse! What words did you tell her to get her to agree to such speed? And Himring at the end of it, with no grass or pastures to speak of. An even poorer reward!”

“I told her no lies,” Fingon says vaguely, and with the air of a man who has historically bribed steed after steed with pilfered sugar cubes, and will do so again. He downs the rest of his wine with a loud slurp.

“Ah, but I have missed you,” Maedhros admits, with more sincerity than intended. “You and your table manners,” he emends.

Fingon throws him a knowing look. “I promise to be on my best behavior at dinner, lest your people think you’ve sworn them to an ill-bred hound instead of the Prince they expect.”

“Most gracious of you, my Lord.” He doesn’t mention that Fingon could dance naked upon the table and still his people would look at him as if the very stars shone out of his eyes. He is well-loved by Himring’s residents. The memory of an eagle’s cry and their bedraggled Lord returned to them beyond all hope is still fresh in living memory, and if that feat did not endear them, he is still Fingon, and he exudes charm and good will wherever he goes. He’s seen a woman faint at the sight of his smile, and even that did not surprise him.

"All is well, I hope?" Maedhros asks, eyes resting on the curve of Fingon's neck as he stretches above his head. "I heard tale of your battle at Brithiach, though a brief account only." Truthfully he had been most ungracious for days after he heard word from the raven, and his scouts had been worked to near exhaustion with his demands for information, but Fingon did not need to know that.

"Less of a battle and more of a bout," Fingon grumbles. "I hardly bloodied my armor, despite the ambush. Still, I gave one of the Orcs your name to take with him to the Beyond. I thought that might please you.”

“It does,” he agrees, touched. One must take small pleasures where they can find them in these dark times. Fingon gives him a warm look, and falls back on his hands.

“And what of you?” Fingon questions. “How have you fared, since last we met?” Maedhros takes another sip of his wine, fighting against the urge to speak some self-deprecating remark.

“As well as can be expected,” he replies, trying not to squirm under Fingon’s sudden sharp scrutiny.

“I am glad,” Fingon responds after a moment of consideration. “Though I know the expectations of your wellness are low indeed, so I am unsure of the scope of your meaning. I know how the cold months pain you.”

“I am fine,” Maedhros insists. He waves his hand. “I can still wield a sword. The East remains well guarded.”

“That is all very reassuring, but not what I asked,” Fingon reminds him gently. He has leaned forward during their conversation, and Maedhros is startled to find that he can count his eyelashes, so near he’s drawn. He swallows, and fights with the urge to lean backwards. _It is Fingon_ , he reminds himself, and keeps his fingers tight on the arm of his chair, and does not let them stray towards his sword.

“What more would you have of me?” he grinds out behind clenched teeth. “I am not over-pained, if that is what you are curious about. It is nothing I cannot handle.”

“Of that too I am glad,” Fingon says, and smiles in that sad way of his. Maedhros wonders where the joviality of their conversation went. What purpose is there in these questions? His chest aches once more, and though Fingon does not come any closer, Maedhros’ leg twitches with the need to find somewhere else to be. He sees Fingon still a moment, and then his fingers flex the once, and he leans closer. Maedhros’ heart pumps loudly between them.

“Maedhros–”

A knock on the door. Maedhros extricates himself with barely concealed relief, ignoring the way Fingon sighs and sits straight once more.

It’s Arderthor, and she has the good grace to look contrite, though he can’t begrudge her her good timing. “An issue with the kitchens, my Lord.”

“I’ll see to it at once,” he decides, and turns back towards Fingon, now safely situated with a room’s length between them. “I’ll leave you to rest before dinner, my Lord. I’m sure you are weary from the road.”

“Of course,” Fingon responds, awkward and overly formal. Much of what they say to each other these days is so. His own doing, of course, and something he’s not quite sure how to mend. He hesitates at the door’s frame— he should say something, perhaps. Try to fill the silence with a light hearted jest, or a squeeze of the arm. A friend would. Instead he lets the door fall shut behind him, and heads towards the kitchens.

–––

The issue is swiftly dealt with, and everyone departs from the kitchens with nearly all of their dignity in tact, albeit with soggy boots. He did not strictly need to see to the cleanup personally, but it was either that or find something to pummel, and word of that would get back to Fingon, surely, so to the kitchens it was, and then to dinner.

By the time he makes it to the hall, the table is half full and Fingon has already claimed the seat to the right of the table’s head. He looks breathtaking, of course. Nothing too fine– this is not the court of the High King, but a fortress– just a simple blue tunic laced with gold thread. His braids stem out over the back of his chair and on his brow there lies a thin circlet, twisting silver set with sapphires and diamonds. It’s a work he’s not seen before, and wonders what happened to the old one, or if he was braver, if he might inspect this new one closer. He clears his throat.

“I had meant for you to sit as appropriate for your station, my Lord.”

“Nonsense,” Fingon says waving his hand, and if there is a tightness about his eyes, Maedhros spares no comment. “I will not unseat you in your own home. I am perfectly content with where I am. Come!” He gestures to the chair on his left. “I hope everything is situated in the kitchens. If my _carnisulpa_ has been tampered with I will be most displeased.”

“It was that to which I ran with such urgency,” he lies with ease, grateful that Fingon does not push further. “Rest assured we were able to salvage the beets from the ensuing flood.”

The hall is crowded on this night of feasting, and the table has been set accordingly. To his left sits his captain, already deep in conversation with one of Fingon’s honor guard by her side. The normal placements have been compacted, and it’s not until after he pulls in his chair that he realises how close Fingon now sits. Had he a right hand, he might be in danger of knocking fingers.

“Ah, but these have been a long last few years,” Fingon says after a healthy pull of his wine. “I must thank you for your diligent correspondence. Nothing warms me on a cold winter night quite like the knowledge that our Eastern granaries are well stocked, and our stores of spun wool are in no danger of depleting. And your tax ledgers, so exceedingly thorough! There exists no finer a bedtime story, to be sure.”

“You’re welcome,” says Maedhros blandly, choosing to ignore the undercurrent of Fingon’s words. “It’s well that our crowned Prince takes such a keen interest in his fiefdom, and can recognize the value in a meticulous record system.” He flexes his fingers around his goblet before taking a sip. “Besides, my handwriting has never been neater.”

Fingon smiles. “That’s so! I dare say your lines are more even than mine, and I am bereft of excuse.”

Maedhros doubts that very much, but says nothing. “And how goes your Father, the King? And your siblings?”

In some small ways Fingon is quite easy to predict, and the way he lights up at mention of his family is well anticipated. Maedhros spends a good moment simply observing, picking at his salad and nodding in the right places, and watching the way Fingon’s eyes go soft at the mention of his niece, who just won her first archery competition, and their Aunt, at whose mention the creator of the circlet is revealed.

“Ah,” says Maedhros. “I should have suspected. I was wondering to whom I should pay my compliments over such fine settings, though now that I know it’s maker, I will settle for my Prince passing along the admiration of Himring.”

“Perhaps she would enjoy a letter,” suggests Fingon, and he huffs out a laugh when Maedhros raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “I said perhaps! It has been long since last you spoke, and her spirit is a wild one, prone to sudden shifts of mood or temperament.” He pauses for a moment. “Would you like to inspect it?” he asks, quieter, and to anyone else that would seem a casual offer, but for the way Maedhros goes still.

He _would_ like to inspect it, as would any Noldor when presented with such fine craftsmanship. _It is only a circlet, passed to me by my dearest friend_ , he tells himself, but still he hesitates. He’s suddenly furious, not at Fingon, of course, but himself. If he cannot perform so simple a task, then what was it, exactly, that Fingon saved? He grinds his teeth, fingers tapping against the table.

“Yes,” he says, finally and without much conviction, but the way Fingon smiles at him then makes the deliberation worth it, and when he passes the circlet over it is with his fingers at the very edge, careful and precise. Maedhros accepts it gladly, eyeing Fingon’s fingers as they settle back upon the table before holding it to the nearest candle.

“It is skillfully made, indeed. What happened to your old one?” he wonders, marveling at the delicacy of the thin strands of silver. Such intricate labor is forever lost to him, now, but he can still appreciate the craft, however it may make him yearn for the forge of his youth.

Fingon hesitates, and that’s enough to make him glance away from the glinting sapphires. “Fingon?” he prompts when he receives no reply, and to his amazement, Fingon starts to twist the end of one of his braids, a habit Maedhros thought him long grown out of.

“Well,” Fingon says, and the tone he uses is the same he uses for formal address. “You see, that is a long tale, and perhaps it might be left to another d–”

“Oh, don’t be modest, my Lord,” Fingon’s captain pipes up. Calle her name is, by his last intelligence report. She is clearly well into her cups, a bright flush on her cheeks and a slight dazed look upon her. “‘Twas a noble defeat, and there’s no shame in that.”

“A defeat?” Maedhros asks, raising his eyebrows at Fingon who has hastily picked up his goblet and started to chug. “A battle?” he questions, this time with some anxiety. How did he not receive word?

“Aye, my Lord, and a fearsome one at that,” says Calle, nodding solemnly into her cup. “To an opponent I would not dare face even on my best of days.”

“It was hardly a fair fight,” Fingon grouses, and then Maedhros understands, and relaxes.

“Ah, another of Írissë's competitions, was it?” The guard confirms his suspicions with a nod. “But how did the circlet become lost, I wonder?”

“Well that is a fascinating tale, my Lord, if you don’t mind me saying,” she says.

“It is of no matter, truly,” grumbles Fingon, and that alone makes Maedhros lean closer, over his plate and well into Fingon’s space before he can think better of it.

“It would please me to hear it,” he tells the guard. “I’m sure it would,” Fingon says darkly, but there is a light of amusement in his eye, and so Maedhros thinks he is not too offended.

“Our Prince is both steadfast and noble,” Calle continues, and Fingon must be getting deep in his cups as well, for he starts to nod before catching himself. “Dedicated, and courageous in the face of overwhelming odds. He does not falter!” Maedhros nods; all true. “When faced with a challenge he will give all!” She laughs, then, and some wine sprays from her mouth across the table. “And indeed he did!”

Fingon groans, and places his head in his hands. His braids dangle forward, close enough for one of them to brush against Maedhros’ wrist. He stares at it a moment, before laughing himself.

“The pieces fall into place, at last! Our Prince could never resist a wager, least of all from his dear sister.” Maedhros finishes his wine, and rests his cheek on his fist. “But that still does not explain where the circlet has gone. Will she not part with it, even for her crowned Prince?”

“You know her almost as well as I,” Fingon says, plainly annoyed but trying to hide how much. “What do you think?”

“She asked him to repent, she did,” says his guard, “and when he would not, she then lined us up by the shores of Mithrim, and made him bid his circlet farewell.”

“Did she–”

“She threw it into the lake, of course,” Fingon concludes wistfully. “And that was that.”

“Never have I seen a throw made with such ferocity,” Calle adds. “Never even saw it come down, we did. It may well still be flying, for all we know, straight into the sky and up into the stars.”

Maedhros laughs again, along with the greater half of his feasting table, and leans heavy on his palm as he catches Fingon’s gaze. His lips are stained from the _carnisulpa_ , and the dark red pairs nicely with the flush below his cheekbones. Fingon gives him an odd look he can’t quite place, and Maedhros realises he’s forgotten himself, his smile surely pulling on his scars in a way not fit for polite company. He relaxes his lips back down into a quirk, suddenly acutely aware of the cold press of Fingon’s hair bead against his skin.

“Well,” he says, swallowing thickly around a parched throat. He swirls his refilled cup before taking another sip to wet his lips. “You were quite correct. That was an interesting tale, worthy of its own song, in the very least.”

Fingon snorts into his cups. He must catch sight of his braid, for he shakes his head at once and it resettles with the rest back behind his chair.

“Apologies,” says Fingon, quietly and with more remorse than is merited by a mere brush of his hair. Again, Maedhros curses his own weakness.

“It is fine,” he replies, and is surprised to find that the words ring true. Perhaps he might– well, hair is one thing, and he is delving towards the bottom of the barrel himself, if he has been counting his refills properly, so that must be accounted for–

“Speaking of songs,” he interrupts his own thoughts before they could sink to a depth not so easily resurfaced from. “Will my Lord be gracing us with a performance this evening?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” says Fingon, flush bright on his cheeks, but one of Maedhros’ house is already passing him a harp to the delight of all, and really, Fingon has never needed much encouragement to perform. Easily he scoots his chair back against the wall, fingers already twisting the pins to his liking. Fingon does not consider himself a musician, but Maedhros knows first hand what notes sung by Fingon’s fair voice can bring to those who are lost. They are in the midst of a war, and whatever hope they might find must not be squandered.

 _And it is no great hardship to endure_ , he thinks as Fingon begins, a familiar tune sang often in their youth. He’s forgotten its name, but his mind recognizes its pattern. When did he last hear it? Not on these shores, surely. Fingon’s fingers move expertly towards the chorus, and then he remembers.

A peaceful day on the slopes near the pass of Calícyra, Fingon’s hands drifting idly over his harp strings, hair askew from their climb. The faint light of Telperion had glimmered upon his skin as Maedhros untangled his curls, setting them to intricate braids in a pattern down his back. Fingon’s smile had been bright as he tipped his head backwards to offer him a daisy he’d found in the tall grass, and his laughter was sweet in his ear. He can still remember the smell of the fields, the warmth of the gentle breeze, the feeling of Fingon’s arms draped over his legs, the press of his back against his chest.

He focuses on Fingon once more to find he’s looking straight at him, a soft smile on his face, and eyes alight with something he can’t name. Maedhros swallows, and looks down. His chest aches. He wonders why this is the song Fingon chose.

His prosthetic lies heavy on his thigh, its steel cold and lifeless. He does not care to wear it overmuch, but for formal events it seems more appropriate than a pinned sleeve. Its metal is hidden by a leather glove, and its fingers are set in a loosely curled position, as if that is fooling anyone. He tries to flex them anyways, and frowns as the phantom sensation flutters near his wrist.

He will never braid Fingon’s hair again, not with such a poor imitation. ‘Tis a silly thing to care about, now after all that’s happened, but the thought strikes him there at his feasting table, and he can’t quite seem to let it go.

His left hand spasms atop the wood, as his muscles are oft to do, and he stares at the subtle bend in each of his joints. The healers did their best, of course, but there is only so much one can do when faced with years of scar tissue and bones healed without setting or care. His index fingers lacks a fingernail, and on the back of his hand, surrounded by less noticeable scars: a circular puckered mark, with its twin on the inside of his palm. He curls his fingers in disgust.

 _Why does it matter?_ He questions, and though the fires are burning well throughout the hall, he shivers at the sudden chill in the air. His fingers can still grasp the hilt of his sword, and that is enough. Any other use they might have does not matter.

 _Not the hands of a craftsman, I should think_ , a voice says, and he stills. _Not flexible in movement, nor quick, nor steady. But they are very beautiful_.

 _Not here_ , Maedhros thinks desperately as his remaining nails dig into the wood. _He is not here_ , _and his words cannot touch me now._

 _But of course, that is what you are! What you were named for. Maitimo the beautiful, Maitimo the fair!_ Cold flesh grips his hand, and he struggles against the chains that bind him. _Yes, I can see it now, faint echoes beneath the filth._ He says nothing, just shudders in revulsion at the utter wrongness of the Maiar’s touch. There’s a sharp pressure on his fingernail, and he bites his tongue to keep from screaming as it slowly peels from his flesh. _How relieving it must be to be stripped of such a responsibility! The most beautiful no more!_ The bones in his fingers crack under the pressure, and he does scream, then–

“Last of our Summer's harvest, my Lord,” interrupts a hushed voice. Decades of practice prevent him from reacting outwardly, but his limbs are tense, and sweat pools on the edges of his brow. He forces himself to take a deep breath, and then opens his eyes once he realises they were closed.

It’s only a servant, with fruit in hand. He stares at the basket uncomprehendingly, blinking against the sudden harshness of the firelight. Fingon’s voice he still hears, but the sound no longer rests easily on his ears. A crowd has gathered near him, admirers of the crowned Prince, and the air in the hall feels thin and hot. The fur about his neck is stifling, and he yearns to be rid of it.

“No thank you,” he finally responds after he remembers a question was asked of him. Soundlessly he pushes back his chair, gathers his cloak around him, and strides from the hall, the sounds of Fingon’s voice fading into silence.

–––

This high in altitude, the air has a quality of stillness to it; a hesitation before the storm arrives. In the distance, clouds move ever Southward. It is too dark to see the peaks of Thangorodrim, but he’s acutely aware of its presence, nonetheless.

He leans on his forearms with a weary sigh, ignoring the stab of pain that shoots down his arm from his shoulder.

Perhaps it may be possible for him to go a single evening bereft of memory of that Place, but in many ways, he is still a prisoner. This he knows, and loathes.

To be free of it! A naive thought, perhaps, and a boon he does not deserve, but still one he craves. He has withstood the enemy’s torments, yes, but not through any will of his own. Morgoth’s Songs are potent as they are vile, and though he yearned for death in the midst of his many tortures, no matter how his stomach cramped and longed for sustenance, he would not starve, and no matter how his wounds festered, or the will drained from his mangled body, still his fëa remained imprisoned within his flesh. How many of his people since have praised his resilience in the face of such Evil? How revolted they would be if they knew the truth.

_Have you not grown bored, creature?_

He thought himself invincible, then; a bright flame like his Father before him, undaunted in the face of great evil.

_You know I will not give you what you seek, so why not kill me and be done with it?_

_Kill you?_ Sauron sounded shocked, and then had laughed. _You would think to die a martyr? How noble! Would that please you?_ He had put his unearthly hands upon his face, then, and he could not flinch away, weary and broken as he was. _But what would be the point? There is no value in your death; no ransom, nor message received._ A finger brushes over the burn on his cheek, still blistering and peeled red. _The former High King of the Noldor, now only a shade, mutilated_ _and decrepit, of no use to anyone. Unremarkable in every way, unloved and forgotten._

Maedhros had said nothing, did not let the Enemy know how he too had thought these things, alone and bound in the utter darkness of his cell. He did not know how long it had been since first he was captured, but his brothers had sent no word. For that he was grateful, and yet–

And _yet_ –

 _I wonder_ , the voice says, and he hears it clearly now, threaded into each crystal of ice on the wind. _Your mother the sculptor, unrivaled amongst her peers. You are surprised? I do not tell lies, only truths that some find difficult to hear. No, she is quite skilled, that is well known. And you her firstborn, the greatest of all of her creations! As well-formed and lovely as the smoothest marble; how righteous she must have felt, to have her naming rewarded!_ Fingers wrap around his matted hair, tugging at the knots and reopening old wounds. Blood drips down the back of his neck, staining his back in muted shades of reddish-brown.

_I wonder, could she bear to look at what you’ve become?_

“Enough,” he whispers, and then when that does not banish the words from his mind, he bites down hard on his lip until he tastes blood. _Enough of this._ It does not matter, it does _not_. Why must his mind continue to dwell on this? Did he not learn his lesson about vanity? Did the Enemy not wield it expertly against him, so obvious a weakness it was? He had thought it cut away under knife and scalpel, but still it persists deep within the recesses of his mind, and rears its head when he forgets to not think of it. _Put it aside_ , he thinks. _They are only scars._

He scoffs, breath freezing before him. _Only scars_ , indeed. And bruises, and welts, bends and breaks– he’s seen the list of his injuries the healers had documented upon Mithrim’s shores; a sealed scroll, rolled several times over. They had given it to him before he departed with a detailed set of instructions for how he might heal: over time, and with great strength of will. A kind gesture, however naïve.

 _Or perhaps they knew the truth as well as I_ , he thinks, _and thought to mock me_ ; a final parting gift from the healers of Fingolfin’s followers– they who had laid hundreds to rest to Ulmo’s icy depths– to the first son of Fëanor. It would be well warranted.

The sound of boot against stone. A door, opening–

“Your steward told me where to find you,” says Fingon, cheerfully side-stepping the drawn sword and moving beside him near the parapet. Despite the chill in the air, he leaves a careful arm’s length between them. Maedhros sheaths his sword, resigned. Fingon is still flushed from the warmth of his Hall, and the topmost laces on his tunic have slipped free, the fabric flapping gently in the evening breeze.

His words register and Maedhros frowns. How should his steward know where he is? He must make efforts to randomize his movements. If Arderthor can predict his actions so thoroughly, so too could the enemy.

Fingon leans heavily on the wall, head tilted upwards towards the night’s sky. His neck is long and smooth, and also bare. Dangerous, and vulnerable. Foolish of him, a single arrow could–

“Will you tell me of the East?” Fingon asks, and does so in the tongue of their youth, the esses horribly mispronounced yet a familiar comfort. He does not mention his sudden departure from the hall, and he can’t decide whether to be annoyed at or thankful for Fingon's seemingly limitless patience.

“Many lands lie East of Hithlum," he responds in kind. "Of what would you know?”

Fingon’s hand twitches, as if he means to whack him in the arm as he once would have. Maedhros eyes it, but it is still. If he feels disappointed, he does not show it, nor question why.

“Tell me of Himring, of course. Of your improvements since last I was here. Have you finished the Eastern road? It was well-planned by the last scroll I saw, so much so that even my brother could find no fault with it, and that is a rare sight indeed! You must pass my compliments to the architect.”

He had drafted the final design himself, through hundreds of revisions and refinements– not for the calculations, those were perfect– but for the steadiness of his hand, though Fingon does not seem to know. _Or perhaps he does_ , Maedhros thinks as he catches a gleam in Fingon’s eye, _and is simply humoring me._ Fingon has always had a particularly uncanny ability to appear to be unaware whilst in truth listening intently. It drove him to near madness when they were children, deep in the recesses of their grandfather’s library for another lesson, Tengwar or philosophy or whichever subject Fingon fancied that day.

He could deny him nothing even then, and Fingon has asked, humoring or no, so he takes a moment to collect his thoughts, and starts to speak.

Speaking of the Marches comes easily. His people are dedicated to their crafts, and their skills have been well-honed over the last age. Invention is borne of necessity– with the exception of perhaps his Father, who had instead created because he knew no other way to live– and his people have adapted well to the harsh landscape they now find themselves in. This time, Fingon does not waver as he speaks, nor let his attention drift, instead eyeing him attentively, and commenting his surprise at many a revelation.

By the end of his report, Fingon is leaning hard on his fist, lips still upturned in a smile, and Maedhros cannot help but feel at ease for perhaps the first time this night. It is just Fingon and himself up here, no one else to spy him and cast judgement. He feels the last tension from the feast unwind from his shoulders, and allows himself to mirror Fingon’s posture, albeit with more of a bend at his hips.

“I am glad of your success here,” Fingon says at last, and without a trace of mockery. “At first I did not think that you could be content here on a mountain so high it seems on the edge of the World, but I see now that you have made a fine place for yourself.”

Here amongst the barren landscape, removed from polite society. Yes, he has found where he belongs. It was not intended as an insult, however, so he does not take it as such.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and shifts against the cold that has settled into his joints. He looks out over the lands below, for what little he can make out amongst the shadows of clouds rolling in towards the mountain. “It is not where I expected to end up when first we set from Valinor,” he muses, and then quite immediately regrets it, but Fingon only huffs.

“No,” Fingon says wryly, and perhaps a bit solemnly, “‘tis not where I imagined being a century past either.”

He does not mean anything by it– _it’s Fingon,_ he reminds himself again– but still he glances down to the greyed splotches on Fingon’s fingertips, and swallows against the guilt that rises in his throat.

“But despite everything, I am glad to be here,” Fingon adds, and Maedhros looks at him. “With you,” he adds quickly, and then smiles.

Maedhros looks at Fingon’s hands once more, and this time it is less of an ache, and more of a tugging sensation at the back of his stomach, urging him forward. He grinds the back of his teeth together, and hesitates.

 _Is it Fingon_ , he tells himself, _and no other_. It is Fingon’s hand before him, and Fingon’s smile on his face, and Fingon’s words still sweet in his ears. There is still an arm’s length between them, but the distance does not seem so vast, just then. A few handspans; traversable, surely. _He will not mind it_ , he thinks, were he to place his hand upon his. The air is brisk and laden with ice, and Fingon is still only in his fine silk tunic from dinner, so he might perhaps appreciate such a gesture, or–

Fingon turns his head back towards the sky. He’s hesitated too long, he realises, and the moment has passed. He curses his own indecision. _It is only a touch_ , he thinks, and a mild one at that. He cannot heal, no, but perhaps he could– if Fingon should want–

“I thought they would seem closer from up so high,” Fingon says, and his gaze is drawn to the spattering of stars high above, in the ever dwindling gap in the clouds. He looks beautiful standing there, with starlight in his eyes and his braids unbound behind him, gold threads catching on Tilion’s light and reflecting off his skin.

“Maybe in a more hallowed place,” Maedhros says, and, rolling his shoulder, resettles his position against the wall, closer now. Perhaps if another opportunity presents itself–

“Despite all our many mutual grievances, I cannot find it within myself to hate Varda’s creations,” Fingon says with a small smile. He looks at him, and his eyes are sad. “Do you not find joy in their light, even still?”

Maedhros looks at him for a long moment, and then lifts his gaze back towards the stars. “Perhaps,” he starts, hesitating. “In the right company, I might be permitted to see their beauty.”

Fingon smiles at him then, warm and sweet like the days of their youth, and Maedhros cannot help but smile back. Who could resist, when faced with such a vision? Fingon shivers, and Maedhros’ heart leaps in his chest. His fingers fumble at the clasp on his cloak, and biting his lip, he takes a step forward–

Fingon takes a step back.

Maedhros lets his hand drop, lungs suddenly laden with ice.

 _Of course_ , he thinks, backing away against the wall. _Of course, of course_. The Enemy was correct in many ways– he is a fool, truly, to think that Fingon would welcome one such as he anywhere near him. He sees it clearly now: reaching out to take his hand, and Fingon would bear it with great nobility, and later, when Maedhros was out of sight, he would let himself feel disgusted by the creature that he let take comfort from him. His face feels hot against the bitter cold growing heavy in the air, and he’s angry– not at Fingon, no, never at Fingon– but at himself, for even after all this time, and though it was beaten into him for nearly three decades, still he has not learned. Still he yearns for what he does not deserve. He is utterly selfish, and delusional, besides.

“It’s late,” he rasps, and then turns about at once and heads for the door. “I’m sure you’re tired." He hears Fingon move, a sudden intake of breath, and he cannot bear to hear whatever it is that he has to say, so he twists open the handle and steps onto the threshold.

“Good night,” he says, and lets the door slam shut behind him, the wind obscuring his name on Fingon’s lips.

–––

Water drips from his hair as he leans back against the door to his quarters. He lets it shut closed behind his weight and knocks the back of his head upon the wood, pauses, and then does it once more, harder, for good measure. His prosthetic he removes at once, tossing it in the direction of the bed with no care for where it lands.

The room is dark save for remnants of the morning’s fire, now just embers amongst ash. No fresh wood lies in the grate– no servant will enter into his chamber without explicit permission, and few will dare even with such. He stares into the darkness now, swallowing as it begins to inch closer, pressing against his skin with intent, faceless but familiar.

"No," he whispers, the words sticking in his throat. The wind batters against the window pane like the rattling of chains. His good ear twitches. "No," he says again, more firmly. His nails bite against the raised scars on his palm, and he presses backwards against the door until the hinges creak under the strain.

Tax reports. He needs to see to the report from the southern Marches, he must audit the total yield and adjust the numbers for next year. There was that fire near Nan Elmoth to account for, and there were supplicants just yesterday’s morn in his audience chamber–

His desk chair scrapes along the floor, papers rustling as he shuffles them, searching for the document he started this morning. He's sure he left it carefully placed under his paperweight before his morning drills. Had a servant been in?

 _They would not enter without permission_ , he reminds himself. His fingers tap against the topmost paper as he eases himself into his seat. The suspicion settles deep within him, and he shakes his head, rubbing his temple with a wince.

 _My servants would not betray me_ , he thinks. _They are loyal to the House of Fëanor, they serve me out of respect._

 _They serve you out of fear_ , another voice insists, creeping out of the dark recesses of his mind. _They fear all of the Enemy's monsters._

"Enough," he whispers to himself, picking up his quill. There is no time for this, there is so much to do; the document is no matter, he can start again–

A log shifts in the fireplace, and his quill snaps in two. He stares as ink drips down his fingers, the black liquid shifting to red before his eyes as it sinks into the fabric of his sleeve.

One more mark, one more stain– what does it matter?

_Maitimo. Mai-timo–_

He freezes, breath caught in his lungs.

_No, that does not quite fit now, does it?_

"Stop it," he chokes, curling his fingers around the pieces of broken quill. The jagged edge cuts deep into his palm and he shudders, furious with himself.

_No response from your brothers, no offers for your freedom. It’s as if they’ve forgotten you entirely._

"Stop, stop it–" he twists his fingers into his hair. " _Enough_ , it doesn't matter–"

_A pity. Like your mother’s famed pottery, it seems: once the outer layer is cracked, nothing of value remains._

A cold breath stings his ear like ice. He pulls on his hair until his scalp starts to burn.

 _I suppose I can find use for such an unsightly creature._ A touch along his ear, and a sob wrenches through him like a blow to the gut, and he feels what little hope he harbored until the moment shudder, and die within him as a smothered flame.

The doorknob rattles, and he jumps in his seat. His hand trembles on the hilt of his sword.

 _Thump thump thump_.

Not his heart, but the door. The knock is loud, and incessant. Familiar. He slumps, hand slipping down the side of his face, suddenly weary beyond all words. He could feign absence, but he knows who lies on the other side, and he would not give further offense. He is the Lord of Himring, a loyal vassal, and despite everything he does respect the common courtesies. He's not Curufin.

His leg seizes when he stands. He ignores it and limps towards the handle. At the door he takes a deep breath, forces his face into something that could perhaps pass as neutral in the right light, and twists it open.

Fingon blinks at him on the threshold, hand raised. There is ice in his hair; it sticks to his eyelashes, and clings to the damp silk of his shirt. Maedhros curses.

“To the fire,” he commands, and it says much that Fingon goes without protest, teeth chattering as he walks.

“Here,” he says, and reaches for his cloak for a brief moment before thinking better of it. Instead he tosses him the quilt from his bed, its fabric thick and woolen and with no trace of him upon it. He watches Fingon wrap his fingers around it, how he winces when his fingertips touch the scratchy fibers. He imagines for a moment taking his fingers beneath his own, rubbing gently to warm them– but then thinks of Fingon’s face as he bears such a touch, and instead busies himself at the fire, adding more wood from the stacked pile and poking and prodding and glaring until the blaze is once again burning hot against the grate.

He watches it for a moment, and then pours Fingon a drink. And a large one for himself.

“Drink,” he orders as he hands him the glass. Fingon reaches for it unsteadily– open and trusting, he really must acquire a taster– and when he accepts it their fingers brush, just once, across the knuckle.

“Sorry,” Fingon says quickly as he clutches his glass to his chest, goosebumps upon the exposed skin near his wrist. He hears a voice on the sharp crackle of wood being consumed, whispering in his ear. _Now, now, I've barely touched you._ He wants to weep, suddenly, and instead downs his wine to avoid it. He pours himself another, in case the urge presents itself again.

Fingon says nothing, but he says it very loudly. He nurses his wine whilst huddled in the quilt, staring into the fire, and Maedhros excuses himself towards the window where he does not have to bear the sight of Fingon rubbing at his fingertips. The burn on the side of his face itches in the firelight, and a phantom pain twinges in his right hand. He drains his glass, praying to whatever Vala might hear him that Fingon will leave so he can sit here in silence and then, whilst the fortress sleeps, find something to strike.

“Have I done something to offend you?” Fingon finally asks, voice quiet in the still tension of the room. Maedhros sighs, rubbing at the sudden headache blooming between his eyes.

“No,” he responds tersely, and regrets it immediately. Fingon does not deserve such ire from him, but he has experienced every single emotion left available to him on this night, as Fingon often inspires, and he does not quite remember how he is supposed to act. Outside, the storm rises; shards of ice begin to cake on the glass and the view of the Northern mountains fades to dulled grey. He catches sight of his reflection and grimaces. He takes another long pull of his wine. _Where did he put that bottle?_

“Yes, you say that,” Fingon starts, and suddenly he is next to him by the window. _How did he move so quickly?_ His robe brushes Fingon’s tunic. He stares at the point of contact. “But your actions speak otherwise,” Fingon concludes. He looks up at him, eyelashes clumped with melting ice. “Is it your shoulder? Are you in pain?” Fingon asks earnestly, so sincerely that Maedhros cannot stand it. “I could–”

“You could do nothing, as you very well know,” he snaps, and then takes a moment to consider throwing himself from the window as Fingon reels back, hurt. Instead he swallows the rest of his wine and casts his gaze back to the storm outside.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Fingon,” he says before he can stop himself, the words rasping through the ruin of his throat. “You owe me nothing.”

“Of the two of us here, it is not I who pretends,” Fingon says brusquely, jaw clenched and eyes alight with anger. “I have not lied to you.”

The _unlike you_ lies unsaid between them, obvious and damning, and he welcomes it. Good. _Good_ , he thinks. _This is what I deserve_. He reaches for the bottle of wine. Fingon snatches his cup from his hands, quick as an arrow, and tosses it behind him. Maedhros glares, but Fingon has never been intimidated by him before, and now proves no different. Fingon crosses his arms about his chest, eyebrow raised.

“Would you care to elaborate?”

He can feel Fingon’s breath under his chin, and the warmth of him along his front, and his anger falters as quickly as it came. Fingon looks so beautiful in his righteousness that he’s almost hard to look upon, like staring into the heart of Arien’s light. He can’t bring himself to meet Fingon’s eye, so he trains his gaze on the fine embroidery of his tunic, and feels wretched, and cold.

“It is nothing,” he says finally after a long moment of tension between them. He takes as deep a breath as he can manage through his nose, and dearly wishes that Fingon would leave so he might finish the rest of the bottle. “I apologize–”

“No,” interrupts Fingon, and he takes another step closer, so close now that Maedhros has to lean away back against the cold pane of the window. “I am tired of trying to guess the meaning behind your words,” he says. “You will tell me how I have been false with you.”

A command, from liege to vassal. He is ashamed, suddenly, and so very weary.

“I only meant,” he says, and hesitates, finding a loose thread on his sleeve and twisting it about his finger, tugging until the fabric is tight about his stumped wrist. “I only meant that you needn’t come so close if I– repulse you so.” He tugs at the thread; it snaps. “I will not be offended.”

Fingon takes a step back, and though he knew it would happen, it still stings. A nail drags down the side of his neck, a cruel laugh echoes in the ruin of his right ear, and desperately he wishes he were anywhere but here, anywhere save one, in this room where Fingon will try to convince him he is wrong by some misplaced sense of nobility he does not deserve.

“Repulsed?” Fingon whispers, and he cannot bear to look at him, and so slips sideways away from where Fingon has cornered him.

“It is fine,” he says, and the words sound hollow even to him. “Do not feel as though you must spare my sensibilities. It’s not as though I have any of them left.”

“Will you shut up for a moment,” hisses Fingon, and then he’s reaching for him, and Maedhros bristles.

“I do not need your pity,” he snarls, and jerks backwards out of Fingon’s reach. Something vicious and cruel lodges in his throat, and he bites his lip before he can spit his foul words at Fingon. _I must remove myself at once_ , he decides. _I must get away from him before I say something truly unforgivable_. He makes towards the door, but Fingon plants himself in front of him, eyes dark with anger.

“You bastard,” he hisses. “How could you think I am repulsed by you?” and then his voice cracks, and his anger wavers. ”Have you not eyes, nor ears?”

His shame threatens to boil him. What a fool he is, to make such a scene over something so meaningless! He has offended Fingon now, and insulted the honor of his actions. He should not have implied so, however true it may be.

But he is at his limit of what can be borne on this night, and he does not have the strength to now defy him. “Just go,” he pleads, and the headache has returned, pounding at his temples and drawing his breath short. The darkness creeps back into the corners of his eyes, and he feels it waiting behind him, ever-patient. “Please.”

“I will not,” Fingon says, and the despair settles over him then, clenching tightly over his heart and squeezing until it rattles in his chest. “I will not,” Fingon says again, quieter, and with conviction. “Maedhros,” he starts, and then he reaches for him once more, and Maedhros stills.

Most days, it was not the touch itself that tortured him, but the anticipation, and the threat. Never did he know what he would face upon each awakening, and not once was Sauron so sloppy as to let him fall into a routine. Some days it was the rack, and others a soft bed, bound and chained, his wounds staining the sheets a dull red. When he tired of whipping him, or passing him to his lieutenants for their own amusement, he would find other ways to get under his skin– through Song, horrible notes that made his very fëa cry out in agony and blood drip from his ears, or through a touch so soft he knew not to trust it, but still craved it for all that it pretended to be painless.

Sauron could not corrupt his fëa, that gift is not within his power to control, but it delighted him to try. And now–

And now, he flinches, he knows he does and hates himself for it, but Fingon does not retreat.

“Maedhros, look at me,” Fingon pleads, but he cannot– he cannot look, and though he tells himself that it is Fingon, that they are in his quarters, in his keep, and it is only them, he can only tremble and wait for the pain to come. He is so _weak_.

A warmth brushes his cheekbone, and he bites down the gasp the threatens to escape him. Foolish, _foolish_ , he will know, he will see how he affects you–

“Repulsed?” he hears again, whispered, and then there is something on his cheek, and he sucks in a choked breath. “Those words are not mine, but the enemy’s!” a voice says fiercely, and then again, softer. “Russo. _Russo_ , open your eyes!”

_Open your eyes, little King._

He cannot, he will not, for if he does he knows– he will be back in the Pit, and Fingon’s fair voice will cackle, and turn dark and cruel, and fool he shall be once more for believing that he can ever escape. Something slips between his crooked bones, squeezing about his palm, and he waits for them to snap as dread coils in his throat, tightening around his neck like a noose made of iron.

“Open your eyes,” he hears once more, the words slow and thick as if pressed through wet clay.

A pressure, about his fingers. A reminder; a warning.

_You will open your eyes._

Not a command, an observation, marked and noted in records meticulously kept. He would not, of course, but he will. He can make whatever choice he would, something his jailer delights in reminding him, but the outcome will be whatever the Enemy decides. He had quickly learned it’s better to end it sooner than to draw it out.

Bracing himself beforehand does not spare him any pain, but he does it all the same. He lets out a slow breath, and opens his eyes.

It is very convincing, the thing that stands before him. It looks like Fingon, down to the stubborn set of his jaw, and the crooked hairs on his eyebrow. His hand lies upon his cheek, his fingers light atop his skin. They’re warm, he notes with a practiced detachment. The skin is rough and calloused along the underside of his index finger. The hand of an archer.

Another hand lies heavy in his own, the fingers pressed through the gaps between his bones as wood fittings hammered into place. Firm, and steadfast, and gentle.

Gentleness is not unknown in the Pit. Its master had learned early that if one only knows pain, they become inured to it, and it loses its potency. A brief moment of tenderness, a hint of sympathy, a small kindness; all had their purpose. He had quickly learned that no soft touch would remain as such. The most innocent gesture would often portend the greatest tortures.

He would not be fooled again. It has to be a trick. It _has_ to be.

But Fingon’s eyes are wet, and that sight makes his stomach churn with guilt, real or not. _It is not real._

“It’s only me,” the thing whispers, and then smiles. He falters.

Could anyone emulate such a sight? Sauron has honed his Song of shapes to a twisted art form, but not even the most skilled could imitate the perfect curve of Fingon’s dimpled cheek, or the slight divot in his nose, or the tiny crinkle on the edge of his right eye. Thrice his Mother had tried to capture Fingon’s likeness, and thrice she had been bested.

A cracking of wood– fire, in the grate. He glances towards it, startled. He had lit it earlier, he remembers now. He was in his room, before, in his keep. He is still here, of course he is, and Fingon–

He looks at their hands once more. The fingertips are grey on three fingers; did Sauron know of the damage done to Fingon’s skin on the long March? How could he? And there– a small scar, diagonal across Fingon’s knuckle. He’s not seen it before, and before he can think of it he brushes his thumb across the rough mark. He wonders where it came from, and for how long he’s had it. Sauron has no scars, no flaws. He keeps his hands clean. It cannot be Fingon, but how could it not be?

A warmth seeps into his palm, and something within him unclenches, and settles. So strange a sensation it is, so painless, that he hesitates, and looks at– him, at Fingon, with growing confusion.

Fingon makes a strange noise then, and his vision fills with dark hair braided with gold as Fingon all but throws himself at his chest. He goes rigid, collapsing heavily against the wall behind him.

“I thought you did not want to be touched, is all,” Fingon says, and the words are muffled by his robe, but still clear despite the wetness he feels seeping into his front. His arms are tight around his back, clutching the fabric of his robes as if he’s afraid if he lets go he might disappear. “You do not know how I have longed to do this,” Fingon admits, and at that, Maedhros feels something in him bend, cracking like the thaw of heavy ice.

He could not bear it now if Fingon fades before him, if this turns out to be another cruel hallucination. How many times had he imagined him there, deep in the darkest corners of the world? How many times had he let the memory of Fingon’s sweet voice give him hope? Always it had fallen to silence, and when he awoke the image of Fingon would fade as wisps of smoke, never tangible no matter how tightly he grasped.

But the comfort he had taken from him then had been in his absence; _Fingon is not here_ , he would think as the sound of his remembered laughter would fade and the horror of the waking world was upon him once more. _He is far from here, and the enemy will never have him_ , he had assured himself, and let that thought soothe him. And now–

Now he knows he shouldn’t, but so desperately he wishes him to be real he’s wrapped his arm around Fingon’s back before he can second guess himself, pulling him close and inhaling the clean scent of him. It smells like Fingon– the oil of his braids and the clove-spiced soap that clings to his skin. He tangles his fingers in the ends of his braids, twisting one about his finger. This texture he knows.

“Fingon,” he tries, tentative and small. He knows he should not wish it, knows that Fingon would be better far away from him, but the way he fits beneath his jaw is so achingly familiar; his own eyes grow hot, and sting. Still it does not hurt, save for the discomfort of his neck, and that is a pain long borne. Perhaps this time it is real, perhaps he can allow himself to–

“Finno,” he tries again, firmer, and Fingon squeezes him so tightly he feels one of his robe fastening pop. _Of course it is Fingon_ , he thinks as Fingon presses his nose into the middle of his chest. His rough fingers are tight about his back, and the weight of him is familiar, and warm. Of course he is real. He must be.

“Yes,” Fingon agrees, a whisper against the collar of his tunic, and then curls his hand affectionately around the back of his neck. His fingers brush against the short hairs on the base of his neck, and he shivers. “You idiot.”

“Yes,” he agrees. He shoves his nose into the golden threads of his hair, and believes.

–––

A pale light streams in through the arched windows of the Hall, and Maedhros sits bent in his chair, eyebrows furrowed as he stares at the platter of fruit before him with his chin in his hand.

There is something very strange about the quality of the air, some lightness he cannot explain. The snow has piled high outside the window sill, and the hall’s ventilation is made poorer by the thick coating of ice. Perhaps the smoke from the fire is what makes him now feel as if floating.

“Hello!” says a voice behind him, and, perplexingly, his heart leaps high in his throat. The chair to his left is pulled backwards, and then Fingon is beside him, smiling so widely that Maedhros is struck momentarily speechless.

“Good morning,” he manages when he’s finally recovered, and feels very strange indeed, heartbeat loud in his ears and chest tight as if with nerves. Fingon’s smile grows even wider, and his cheeks are flushed. He has not seen him quite so breathlessly happy in a long while, before the Darkening, certainly, and wonders what might have caused it. Surely not him?

Fingon reaches for a roll, and Maedhros eyes the curve of his wrist and the scar on his knuckle, now familiar and accounted for.

He had carefully extracted himself from Fingon’s grip as Arien’s light began to creep in through his window this morn, and warm he now feels as he remembers the mumbled protest from Fingon’s lips as he did so. Fingon had been disinclined to disentangle them the evening prior, and truthfully Maedhros had not the will to ask him to, and so Fingon had dragged him towards the fire, tossed the quilt over top of them, and had fallen quite immediately to sleep. And, to his own growing surprise, so too did he. It has been long since last he felt so rested, and he shifts uneasily in his chair, unsure of what to do with this sudden alertness of his mind.

Fingon’s hand appears in his face, interrupting his thoughts and making him focus on what he carries. A roll, buttered and steaming.

“Here,” says Fingon. Maedhros can do naught but accept it, and when he does so Fingon shifts his fingers so that they bump with his own.

 _Ah, a test_ , he thinks, and when he neither freezes nor has any dark thought cross his mind, he sets his roll down on his plate, baffled. Besides him, Fingon starts to hum.

It is not as though Fingon has cured his muscles of their remembered habits in a single night. Of that he is sure, for how could such a thing be possible? Thirty years the enemy had him, or so he was told, and such things are not so easily cast aside, nor forgotten. But Fingon’s chair is close, and his boot presses against the side of Maedhros’ own, yet he feels no need to pull away, indeed quite the opposite. _This is Fingon_ , he reminds himself, and is relieved to find that the thought no longer feels as one he must convince himself of. _He has done less likely things before, with even greater success._

Very confusing, indeed. He must be missing something, somewhere, some other factor he has not considered. What that might be eludes him, and so he takes a bite of his roll that Fingon has procured for him, and chews it slowly whilst listening to Fingon’s soft voice.

“I had planned on touring your latest improvements today,” Fingon finally says, mouth full of apple and biscuit. “But alas! I cannot see farther than a stone's toss in this weather, and so,” Fingon continues with a light of mischief in his eyes. “I must seek other entertainment.”

For some inexplicable reason, at those words his face grows warm. He struggles to think of a reason why, but again is left mystified. Perhaps the servants have built the fires too high.

“What would you have of me, my Lord?” he asks after a moment, and the grin Fingon gives him then triggers a familiar feeling of foreboding often felt in his youth.

–––

Hours later and well past the lunch bell, his arms are as lead, and his breath falls hard from his lips, turning to ice before his mouth there in the small practice yard of the upper courtyard. Every inch of him aches, and he both delights and revels in it. He collapses into the snow. There’s a quiet _whumf_ as he hears Fingon do the same besides him.

“A lovely pillow,” Fingon says dreamily, and Maedhros snorts. “You know, I do believe I’ve lost my sword.”

“Best have not. I’ve just gotten my brother to speak to me again not a fortnight ago after the last incident. If I inform him the Prince has lost his most famous blade I shall not hear from him again for an age. Tempting, of course, though we are in sore need of his craft.”

“It’s not as though the werewolf was your own fault.”

“Truthfully I think he was embarrassed that the attachment melted so easily under the venom, though he would not admit so unless Eru himself commanded it, and perhaps not even then.”

Fingon laughs, and it strikes him then that this is perhaps the most normal conversation he's had with Fingon since before the Darkness. It feels– simple. Effortless, like it once was. It is not as though he had forgotten the way Fingon once spoke to him without fear of his reaction, how he would challenge him without hesitation and how he would match him wit for wit, but he thought it might have been lost to them somewhere along the long stretch of the grinding Ice.

 _Perhaps I have not ruined everything_ , he thinks, and allows the thought fill him with a tentative sort of hope. He turns to look at Fingon, and finds him as he was that morning, eyes alight with happiness, unfiltered and true.

He had not quite realised the way Fingon had censored himself in the years past, the careful restraint with which he acted. What little he remembers of him in Mithrim is more of a presence– a warm spot beside him when he would wake, and a point of familiarity to cling to when the healers would sing him to sleep. When he was more lucid, he remembers a hand placed beside his in his sick bed, never touching. Even when he departed Eastward Fingon did not embrace him in farewell as he once might have done, instead raising a hand from a distance. He had thought that something had changed; that such actions were reserved for those who did not have so much blood between them. Was it truly just to spare his mind?

 _Or_ , he thinks with a hint of despair, _perhaps he did in truth cringe from the sight of him, and welcomed the excuse_ –

“It is well that stubbornness does not run deep in the line of Fëanor,” Fingon says innocently, and wiggles his nose to dispose of an errant snowflake. “Otherwise it would be difficult for you to admit that you lost the bout quite handedly.”

“I have only lost one thing handedly, thank you, and I give thanks to the One every day that you could count better then than you did now, else I would ringing your head with two shields.”

“Are you questioning the integrity of your liege lord?”

“No my Lord, only denying its existen— _oof—_ “

The attack is well anticipated, but the bitter cold of the snow against his teeth still shocks the breath from him. Fingon’s laughter is bright above him, and when he blinks the ice from his eyes and swallows Fingon hovers above him, his smile wide and practically glowing in the afternoon’s light. Maedhros’ breath remains lost to him for a moment too long as he stares, and he coughs as his lungs catch up with his heart, and then Fingon falters.

“Maedhros?’ Fingon asks tentatively, and then clears his throat and shifts off from atop his legs. “Ah, I am sorry, I should not have—“

The snowball hits Fingon’s face with perfect accuracy; by now he knows quite well how to make use of awkward silences to further his own advantage, and historically Fingon has fallen for it more often than not. Maedhros watches as he tumbles backwards into the snow with a cry of surprise.

His expression when he sits up is priceless, of course, and Maedhros forgets himself a moment and laughs, an ugly sound through his ruined throat, but more genuine than he’s felt in years, and ignores the thought that it is beneath both of their dignities to be rolling in the snow in the middle of his own keep. Fingon shakes out his braids and laughs as well, bright as a bell.

“I see,” he says, “you lose the bout and now seek to soothe your hurt pride!” Fingon pushes himself to his feet, wiping snow from the corner of his mouth with a grin. _Surely Fingon would not smile so at one he finds so distasteful?_ he thinks, and feels his heart pounds against his ribs. He tosses another snowball, this one easily dodged.

–––

They are dripping with melting snow when they finally make it back inside, and though Fingon shivers, he is also smiling, and does not rub at his fingers overmuch, so Maedhros does not think his thoughts lie in any dark memory. They reach Fingon’s quarters first, Maedhros’ own being at the top of the highest tower, and as soon as the door closes behind them Fingon strips himself of his tunic without prompting, tossing it on the floor and making for his bag by the bedside. Maedhros stares for a moment at the smooth skin of his back, at the way the muscles of his shoulders pinch as he bends down to rifle for a dry tunic, and then looks down at the floor instead, never before quite noticing the intricate patterns of the finely carved stones.

“I will let you claim victory in our latest bout if it would please you,” says Fingon as the sounds of shuffling fabric fill the room. “For I am a benevolent Lord, and presenting a boon to one’s supplicants is both wise and necessary.”

“How generous of you,” Maedhros replies dryly, and feeling it now safe, lifts his gaze to where Fingon is fastening his belt about his waist. Fingon looks up while he does so, and something about that sight makes Maedhros’ stomach flip as if tossed. Perhaps he is ill, after all. He will have to make sure to avoid the healers lest they suspect.

The fire crackles nearby– he is gratified to see his orders that Fingon’s quarters be kept comfortable had not been taken lightly– and he strides before it, rubbing at his shoulder with a wince.

“Does it pain you?” Fingon asks, and he curses for not noticing that he has finished with his dress and now stands behind him.

“It’s nothing,” he responds, dropping his hand from his shoulder as if burnt, and when Fingon tilts his head at him he feels an odd sense of guilt.

“Will you not tell me the truth?” Fingon asks, quiet and with a hint of that stilted formality so well practiced. Maedhros wonders where his earlier happiness went, and how he might restore it. Does he truly want to know? Would that please him?

“It– is stiff, is all,” he says, and the words sound awkward and strange to his ears. “Both with cold and from the brace, though I am useless without.”

Fingon smiles at him then, and while it is not the same smile as before, it is genuine, and Maedhros can tell he is pleased. A strange exposure he feels, and he’s suddenly unsure of what to do with his hand, so he lets it rest behind his back and tries not to let his sudden listlessness show on his face.

“Will you not remove it now, if it is so uncomfortable? You haven’t need of your arm for a few hours yet.”

Maedhros curls his fingers, and glances about the room for a distraction for Fingon’s attention. When he finds none, he makes the mistake of looking at him, and so earnest Fingon looks and so hopeful that Maedhros feels his will crumbling around him.

“If it would please you,” he finally responds, and before he can think better of it, reaches for the clasp of his cloak.

It is a complex piece of work, carefully designed by his brother to fit his stature and musculature with utmost precision. The straps he wears over his tunic, its many buckles too cold to let lie against his skin: one across his middle which hooks into his belt, and the other holding his shoulder tightly in its socket that winds around his shoulder and back across to his front, connecting from the other side. He opens the buckle now, and with a hiss of pain barely concealed, lets it fall to the carpet.

“Sit with me,” Fingon insists, and sets himself down in front of the fire. Maedhros obeys after a moment– he had not changed, after all, and though he did not get so thoroughly covered in snow as Fingon, still feels the chill air of the storm outside without the comfort of his cloak about his shoulders. Fingon stretches out his legs in front of him and wiggles his toes near the fire’s grate.

“Ah,” he groans after a moment. “Much better.” He turns his head. “Oh, but you have not changed! I have a spare tunic, if you do not wish to travel up so many stairs.”

To be unclad with Fingon’s gaze upon him, to have those dark eyes laid across his mangled flesh– no, best not, for all parties involved. He raises his fingers towards the fire, letting the warm glow ease the tension in his joints.

“No thank you,” he says plainly, and then, “it would be too short on me, besides.”

Fingon huffs, and leans left to jostle him in admonishment. Maedhros winces, and then bites his lip when Fingon frowns.

“I apologize, I did not realise how–”

“Finno, it’s fine,” he interrupts, and tries to smile at him, but his face is cold and his limbs weary, and he does not think he quite manages it.

“If you would like,” Fingon says, and then pauses. “That is, I could perhaps, if you wished it–” and then reaches for his shoulder with a question in his eyes.

Maedhros grabs his hand before he can make contact, and once his fingers grasp Fingon’s, he finds it difficult to pull them back, so he instead lets them drop to his thigh. Fingon looks as though he is about to apologize once more, and that he cannot bear, so he speaks quickly to intercept him.

“I thank you, but it is too sore to be touched, no matter how skilled the hand.” He pauses, and feels oddly bereft as the truth slips easily from his lips. But Fingon seems to accept his explanation, and does not let go of his hand, instead twisting their fingers more comfortably between them.

“For that I am sorry,” he says. “I would not have been so rough had I known.”

“The enemy is not gentle,” Maedhros says darkly, “and nor would I practice as such. You would do me no favors holding back.”

“Ah, but the enemy is surely buried in his fortress as we are yours, and so one could be granted a little gentleness, I should think,” says Fingon, and scoots closer.

Maedhros does not agree, but for the moment’s sake he remains silent, and leans into the warmth of him, feeling, if not entirely content, near enough that he allows himself to relax.

“I wanted to thank you,” says Fingon after a time. Maedhros jerks his head upward, unaware that he had been on the verge of dozing atop Fingon’s head. He frowns.

“I am owed none, least of all by you.”

“Ah, but you are,” says Fingon, and then smiles at him, soft and sweet. “I thank you for trusting me,” he says, and Maedhros stills, but he continues, “at least enough for this,” and he lifts their hands, still intertwined between them. Maedhros looks down at them, and then towards the window. He says it as though it is a gift that was granted to him, and not a failure of his own mind, which would not let a friend get near without fear or panic.

“I trust you, Fingon,” he says, and at Fingon’s stiffening he turns. “I do,” he insists, “and with all. I would not be here beside you if I did not.” How could he think otherwise?

Fingon looks at him for a long moment. His eyelashes seem long in the shadow of the room, and his eyes sad. He looks back down at their hands, smile tight on his lips, and says nothing.

Maedhros clenches his jaw, and turns his head, ashamed. He is right, of course. How Fingon can be more aware of his thoughts than he, he does not know.

“I am sorry,” he says, and means it. “It is not through any fault of your own.” Of that Fingon must be made aware. It is his own failings that cause him to trail half a step behind, or face his back to the wall when they speak, or keep his hand tight on his sword as they walk. Fingon catches a finger on the underside of his jaw, and gently he turns his head to face him.

“Nor is it through any fault of yours,” says Fingon fiercely, and Maedhros does not know how he can say such things to the man who caused his fingers to turn splotched with grey, who condemned his sister-in-law to the frozen depths, and who Doomed him with his own cruelty, he for whom Fingon wet his sword with the blood of his own kin. Many things he has done, many decisions has he made badly that have led him to where he is. He does not deny it.

“You do not believe me,” Fingon states, and Maedhros scoffs.

“I know very well where my own actions have led me,” he says, and suddenly the air doesn’t seem quite so warm, nor Fingon’s presence at his side a comfort. He moves to stand, but Fingon has a tight grip on his hand, and without it the task is difficult at best. Fingon holds him fast, and glares at him.

“I do not deny that which you have done in years past,” says Fingon, and Maedhros flinches and looks away. “Nor should I! It does neither of us good to pretend, but Maedhros, that is not what I speak of now.”

Maedhros is silent a moment. “You do not know of what you speak,” he says softly, and his headache he finds has returned, right between his eyes and pounding at the inside of his skull.

“How can I?” Fingon asks, and he is upset once more. It seems inevitable that he will end up hurting Fingon when he means not to. “How can I,” Fingon asks once more, “when you will not speak of it?”

Maedhros grows still once more. The room seems very dark, just then. The wind has gone quiet outside, and the fire burns low. His skin under Fingon’s palm feels cold, and clammy, and the pounding in his head grows louder still. Why would Fingon want knowledge of such a place? Why would he want to know of what was done to him there, deep beneath the crust of the world, in places long forgotten and unnamed?

 _A fitting place for such a creature_ , a voice sounds, and he trembles–

“Maedhros,” he hears, and he opens his eyes. “Russo,” Fingon says, more gently, and cups his cheek. He stares at Fingon, and falters.

“I cannot,” he chokes, and hates himself for it, but there are some things he cannot bear, and sitting here explaining to Fingon of how his knees sometimes would ache for the ground, so oft was he upon them in the Pit, or of his own people he has slain to free them of what Sauron had twisted them into, or how many a time he had begged his torturers for mercy, and then for death–

No, he cannot. He cannot bear it.

“I am sorry,” he says again, and hates the way his voice wavers. “I know I owe you much, Fingon, a debt I can never hope to repay, but I cannot–” he shudders. “I _cannot_.”

“Russo,” interrupts Fingon, and he smiles at him, squeezing his hand. “It is alright. I will be here, should you wish to tell me. It is not a demand, only an offer.”

Maedhros is silent a moment. “And if I never should wish it? What then?”

Fingon tugs him forward then, and his forehead is warm upon his, and his eyes are kind.

“Then I shall be here all the same.”

–––

The storm rages well into second day, and the third, and also the fourth. On the fifth, Maedhros kicks Fingon out of his study so he can finish his paperwork without distraction, yet as soon as Fingon leaves to see to his men, Maedhros looks to the door, suddenly bereft. After staring at the door frame for minutes past hoping that Fingon might come back through it, he realises he has a problem.

It is not well that he has become so used to his presence. Fingon will return westward soon enough, as soon as the storm clears. The thought now fills him with dread.

 _Fingon is a Prince_ , he tells himself. _That too you laid upon him, and a Prince has many duties, far away from here._

But still he looks to the door, so often his quill drips ink on his missive and he finds he must crumble the paper and start again. He leans back in his chair, hoping the ceiling might provide him an answer the door would not.

Ah, but it has been a strange last few days, and more strange his behavior throughout. Too often he finds his thoughts drifting to his Prince, and too often he has let Fingon waylay him with trivialities of no use to anyone but for the fair smile they cast upon his face. That too has become a constant in his day, and not one he can bring himself to regret putting there. For that is the strangest of all! That Fingon should smile at him so, and when he reaches for him, he now anticipates it, and welcomes it, and also yearns for it, though he deserves it not. He feels stranger yet still, sitting there at his desk and thinking of Fingon’s hand on his chest, of Fingon’s swat upon his thigh, of the warm press of him against his front–

He feels overheated, suddenly, and moves toward the window. The cold press of the glass upon his brow is a sweet relief.

No, it is not well that he should be distracted as he is. It is not likely that the Enemy seeks to attack in the midst of a blizzard, but his Lieutenant is cunning, and delights in the unexpected. He must be more vigilant, lest his people bear the brunt of his negligence.

But he thinks then of the months ahead, of the days he will spend deprived of Fingon’s touch, of his smile, and of his bright eyes alight with mischief, and he grieves. He has borne worse absences, though, of things he was quite attached to, and he has managed it so far. It will not be pleasant, per se, but it will be borne, for he knows no other way.

The storm goes on.

–––

He has honed his strategy over the years, through experience and through research, and through lessons harshly learned, and in war he now excels. His enemies despair of him, and now is no exception.

“You have already played that note, I am certain,” Fingon grouses, and, taking another sip of his wine, draws another card from the top of the deck between them.

“I have not,” he replies as Fingon shoves his new card into his hand with a scowl. “Nor have I played this one,” he says, placing his high C onto the floor.

“You have that one as well!” Fingon exclaims. “You are still a cheater, I see, though how you have managed it with a single hand is a mystery to me.”

“Now, now, is that a way to speak to your Minstrel?” He lays out his hand, a perfect sixty-four notes. Fingon flops back on his back with a groan.

“And now I shall claim my reward,” proclaims Maedhros, and steals Fingon’s wine glass from his fingers. It is sweet on his tongue, and when he sets it back down, Fingon pushes up on his elbows to glare at him. Maedhros only smiles guilelessly.

“Best seven of thirteen, my Lord?”

“I think that is enough treason for one day,” says Fingon, “for surely it is so to cheat one’s own Prince so blatantly, and if it is not, so shall I make it.”

Maedhros laughs, and pours them both another glass of wine. After so long a time confined inside, their stores are dwindling, but trade with the wood elves will be restored ere Winter’s true beginning, and so he is not too concerned. Fingon accepts his glass with a smile, and then looks at him thoughtfully over the edge of his cup.

“The storm will let up soon,” he says vaguely.

“Unless Manwë plans to bury us, which he may well do.”

Fingon takes a sip of his wine. “What shall you do once I am westbound once more?”

His chest aches at the thought, but he thinks he hides it well. “Finish my paperwork, for a start.”

Fingon pouts. “Yes, and after your ledgers have been filled?”

“I will do as I have done, of course,” Maedhros says, and glances toward the window. It faces north, as do most of the windows in the tower, and if he squints he can make out an obscured shadow in the distance. “I will plot to inconvenience the Enemy, in any way that might make a difference in this war.”

Fingon sits up fully, and sways a bit in doing so. They are both well into their cups, though it seems he tolerates the wine’s effects more than his prince as his head is still quite clear, if buzzing with a pleasant warmth.

“So you shall think only of the enemy, and how you might best spite him?” Fingon asks, and picks at the wool of his rug. Maedhros frowns.

“It would be irresponsible to do otherwise,” he says, and frowns further when Fingon starts to pluck the fibers out and onto his lap. He has upset him, he realises, and wonders where in the conversation he has done so.

“Of course,” says Fingon quietly, and then looks at him with his eyes dark, and with lips stained red from wine. “Though I hope that you will not grant the enemy every moment of your thoughts, for he does not deserve them.”

“No,” says Maedhros after a moment. “He does not, but what else shall I think of, if not how to end this war?”

Fingon smiles at him. “I too think long into the night of our enemy, and how we might best resist him. But it brings me comfort to think of more pleasant things, of the courage of our people, and of the success of our raids, and also–” he pauses a moment, and finishes his wine “- ah, and also of my dear friends, and though the distance between us might be long, how they might look westward, and think of me also.”

He understands, then, and feels his face grow warm.

“Ah,” he says, and then looks towards the fire, and wonders at the sudden nerves in his stomach. “Fingon,” he starts, but does not know what he intends to say, so instead swallows the rest of his wine.

In truth, his thoughts stray to Fingon more than he cares to admit, and will surely do so after he has left, but it pains him to think of that absence, and so he ignores it. Would it please Fingon to know? _Perhaps_ , he thinks as he glances toward Fingon’s languid sprawl by the fire, _but admitting to such might not be wise._

“I find myself chilled,” Fingon announces to the room at length, and turns to look at him. Fingon raises his eyebrows, and then glances pointedly to the spot besides him: an obvious command as any spoken. Dutifully, he goes, though the fire burns hot and Fingon’s sleeves are rolled up his arms, and not a goosebump he sees upon him.

It is not so late into the night, but the castle is quiet, and the wind muffled by heavy ice coating the window panes. The fire crackles in its grate, and Fingon lets out a deep sigh, and drops his head against his arm. Guilt he feels, then, for Fingon is still upset, and he does not know of how oft his thoughts are upon him, or the light he brings to his eyes whilst near, or of the smile he brings to his lips when he reads his letters, nor of the golden hair thread he has stolen from him, and keeps tucked into his breast pocket for when his courage fails him. It is not right that he should not know, but how is he to tell him?

“I–” he begins, and his throat is dry and ragged, and so he swallows, and starts again. “I have not been truthful with you, Fingon.”

Fingon stiffens besides him. “I understand,” he says. “I have told you, you need not–”

“Not in that regard,” he says gently, and again finds himself floundering in the face of Fingon’s limitless understanding. “Nay,” he says, “I meant– what I said earlier,” he says, and curses his sudden fumbling of his words. “It is not only the enemy that holds my thoughts,” he finally admits, and feels foolish. Fingon lifts his head. He looks so beautiful, then, with the fire lighting his eyes a bright gold and the flush from the wine thick on his cheeks, that Maedhros is stuck dumb.

“You bring me courage,” he tells him when he can again speak, and watches Fingon’s despondency evaporate before his eyes. _Finally I have done something right,_ he thinks, and then Fingon reaches for his hand.

“Maedhros,” Fingon says, and cups his cheek. His fingers are hot against his skin, and he finds he cannot move, so he lets Fingon do as he will. A thumb brushes over the scar through his eyebrow, and he shudders.

"Is this all right?" Fingon murmurs, and shifts closer. He is so close now, surely closer than he had ever been; he can count every pore on Fingon's nose should he choose.

"Yes," he says, and bites his lip as Fingon runs his finger up the shorn side of his ear.

"And this?" A hand slides down his neck, fingers dip into the collar of his tunic to brush along his skin.

"Yes," he rasps, and feels something desperate rise within him as Fingon shifts closer even still, until he can feel his breath against his skin.

"Russo," says Fingon, and rubs his thumb over scar tissue and the faded spattering of burst blood vessels, down to the curved mark that lines the underside of his cheekbone, and further still, until his thumb lies heavy on his lower lip.

".. and this?" Fingon looks up at him from under his eyelashes, and the heat he sees there would send him to his knees were he not already sitting. "Would you allow me this, as well?"

"Finno," he murmurs, and reaches to grab Fingon's hand, holding it tight against his chest. One thing has always been quite clear. "I would allow you anything."

“Anything?” Fingon asks, and curls his fingers lightly into the fabric of his tunic. Maedhros nods, and when he does their noses brush. Fingon cups his cheek, tilts his head, and though he had thought perhaps Fingon might, when he kisses him then it’s as a jolt of lightning to his chest, and the shock sends him still.

He should not think of it now, but this is something that the Enemy had not taken from him; this is something that is wholly Fingon’s, and the thought pleases him. Fingon is warm against his side, and his lips are soft, and he can taste wine on his lips. He kisses back, tentative, and when Fingon swipes at his lip with his tongue, his thoughts are wiped clean with it.

Fingon pulls back to catch his breath, and makes a noise Maedhros cannot describe but for the way it makes his stomach tighten with heat. Before he can blink, Fingon slips his thigh over his own and is upon his lips once more.

“Fingon,” he breathes when he pulls back– he is so _warm_ , his weight a heavy comfort– and Fingon it seems cannot bear to be away from him long, for he kisses the ruin of his cheek, and his scarred eyelid, and the bend of his nose, before pressing again to his lips. Maedhros shudders, and to his horror, feels his eyes sting.

 _How unsightly you've become_ , a voice whispers to him as Fingon tilts his head and slips his tongue past his lips. _Unloved, and forgotten,_ he hears when Fingon kisses along a scar on his jaw, and down to the patch of burnt skin below his ear. _Alone in the dark, with no one but yourself to blame._

 _I am not alone_ , he thinks, _deserving or not_ , and tugs Fingon back to his lips. He is here, in his keep, and Fingon sits sprawled across his thighs as though plucked from one of his youthful fantasies.

Fear settles over his heart, then. It is too perfect, too simple; it is everything he’s wanted and more, laid out before him as a feast for the taking.

 _I am not alone_ , he insists, and tugs on a handful of Fingon’s braids to kiss him more deeply. _He is real, he must be_. But perhaps this is just another cruel trick; perhaps he will awake once more, and Fingon’s fair image will fade to smoke before him, and the warmth of him will turn cold, and bitter, and this too will be taken from him.

“Hush,” says Fingon as he pulls off of him, and then his lips brush against the side of his neck, and his breath hot against his skin. Maedhros shivers, though the room is well warm. In his chest, his heart pounds.

“I did not say anything.”

“You think very loudly,” Fingon says, and Maedhros trembles as Fingon’s hand drifts over the fastenings of his high-collared tunic beneath his robe. He fears for a moment he has left his mind open– that is a dark place he will not subject Fingon to under any circumstances– but to his relief, finds his will has not faltered. Fingon pulls back to smile, shaking his head so that his braids clatter about his face.

"What has drawn your thoughts, I wonder?" he murmurs.

It helps to see his eyes. They were the first thing he fell in love with, one of his earliest memories, and through all these long years they have not changed, save for slight etches of weariness around the corners. _It is Fingon_ , he reminds himself, and lets the chiming of his hair ornaments drown out the voice whispering in the back of his mind, until it quiets, and is silent.

“Nothing,” he finally replies, and smiles when Fingon frowns. He twists an errant braid around his fingers. “Just you.”

Fingon's expression softens. "Oh," he says, and smiles so sweetly Maedhros finds that he must kiss him once more. Fingon’s weight has shifted unevenly over his legs, and without thinking he wraps his hand and stump around Fingon’s waist and tugs him more firmly into his lap.

Fingon gasps, and rocks his hips forward. The surge of heat that follows is so unexpected Maedhros pulls away from Fingon’s mouth to frown.

“Ah,” he realises, and looks down. Several confusing moments of the last few days are suddenly thrown into perfect clarity. He truly is a fool.

“What?” says Fingon, and freezes atop him. “Oh, I see,” he laughs after a moment, warm and breathless. He presses his lips to Maedhros’ neck and bites lightly at a scar he finds there. “Does that surprise you?”

“It might,” he says, and is not embarrassed as he might ought to be, not with Fingon heavy upon his thighs, and Fingon’s tongue hot against the skin below his ear. “Truthfully, I am relieved. I have not felt.. not for some time now.” He says, and swallows. _Since before the Darkening, surely_ , he thinks. Not since his body became something to avoid, a vessel meant to carry his battered fëa and nothing more. And not since–

 _Not since I shattered everything between us,_ he does not say, but Fingon pulls back to look at him then, and he thinks perhaps he has heard the thought anyways. He clears his throat, suddenly awkward. “I thought perhaps–” he pauses. “Well, I thought I might not..”

Fingon cups his face with his hands. “It’s hardly surprising. One often needs a hand in these matters, and in that regard you are sorely at a disadvantage.”

Maedhros snorts against his mouth, and Fingon laughs, and then presses their foreheads together. It’s difficult to hold onto such dark thoughts with Fingon’s laughter in his ears, so he lets them go, and instead focuses on the way Fingon’s fingers now toy with the ties of his robe.

“Long have I desired this,” murmurs Fingon after kissing him once more. His fingers lie tender under the velvet of his collar. “You know not how I would gaze upon you under the light of the Trees and think it the fairest sight I have or will ever see.”

He flinches, one carefully concealed. _Is that what he pretends now? When he closes his eyes, is Maitimo who he sees?_ He would not blame him, though the thought rests heavy upon him.

A finger, light under his chin. Fingon looks at him, and frowns, tilting his head. Maedhros bites his lip, and the metal of his insert cuts deep against the roof of his mouth. He cringes when he realises Fingon must have felt it.

“I am not how I was, Fingon,” he finally says, unable to meet Fingon’s eye. Fingon is silent a pause, and then reaches for his hand.

“Do you remember that trip we took into the mountains, all of us at once? When Tyelko and Irissë startled the boar, and you chased after them, and Pityo managed to trip you–”

“– right into the pit of sulphur my Father was sampling? How could I forget? I saw Telperion bloom seven times over before the smell was gone from my hair.”

“Aye, and off my hands as well,” Fingon laughs, and then squeezes his hand. “The moment your father pulled you from the pit, and the other time, with the grapes–”

“Don’t remind me, I beg you.”

“– and in Mithrim, and here, now,” Fingon says with a smile on his lips. “My feelings remain unchanged.”

Maedhros stares at him a moment, and would think him a liar but for the darkness of his eyes, and the hot flush on his skin. Fingon drops a hand to the collar of his tunic.

“And now– now I would be content to kiss you until the remaking of the World,” Fingon says as his nose brushes against his neck, “and will do, if that is all you want of me.” The top of his tunic’s fastenings loosens, and parts. “But– I would like to see you, if you will allow me.”

Maedhros grabs his hand. “It is not a pretty sight.”

“That is for me to decide,” Fingon responds, defiant as always. He shifts atop his lap, and the pressure causes him to squeeze Fingon’s hand harder than intended. He hesitates.

 _It is Fingon_ , he reminds himself. He trusts him with all, or would do, so why not this? Fingon has seen him already, has seen him at his lowest and then some, but he does not look at himself unless he must, so he does not know what Fingon might make of him now.

The room has grown very warm, however, and the velvet of his tunic is stifling, and Fingon’s fingers against the bare skin of his neck is near maddening, so he pauses only a moment before letting Fingon’s hand go with a nod. Fingon smiles, and then kisses him so fiercely he has to steady them with his hand as they rock backwards.

The fastenings were designed to be opened with a single hand and go faster still with two. He rests his eyes upon the fire as Fingon parts the collar of his tunic. He is unbound, of course he is, he is here in his own keep and is free to do as he pleases, but still finds that he cannot move. It’s not until Fingon’s fingers brush his chest as he tugs at the buckle of his brace that he is startled from his reverie.

“This as well?” Fingon asks, trailing his finger along the edge of the leather in a way that makes the hairs on his arms stand straight.

“It’s fine,” he says with as much nonchalance as he can muster, gazing towards the fire once more. There is the sound of metal against metal, a quiet hush of leather falling, and his shoulder slumps in its socket. He hears Fingon’s sharp intake of breath. _It’s Fingon_ , he thinks somewhat desperately. _Just Fingon_. _I trust him_. _I would trust him_.

Fingon’s hand settles lightly on his sternum, and he doesn’t quite conceal his jolt of surprise. His eyes slip closed of their own accord.

“Oh, Russo,” Fingon says, and then his lips are hot against his uncovered neck. Maedhros wraps his hand around Fingon’s braids, and bites hard on his lip as he shivers.

He had nearly forgotten how another’s touch could feel, how it could send his nerves alight– with pain, yes, but also like this, like the waves of heat that emanate from where Fingon mouths down to his collarbone, how they spark down his spine and pool somewhere near his hips, making him squirm.

“Maedhros,” Fingon says against his collar, and then kisses up his jaw to his mouth. He’s trembling, he realises, and digs his fingers tighter into Fingon’s braids to stop the shaking of his limbs. At that, Fingon rolls his hips, and Maedhros feels him then, hard against his stomach. The heat of him makes him gasp into Fingon’s mouth, and when Fingon does it again, he forgets his balance and they topple backward onto the rug.

He cannot help but notice how neatly Fingon fits between his thighs, and how well he looks with his hair mused as it is and the firelight framing his face. He reaches to thumb at the dimple of Fingon’s smile, to brush his fingertips over the flush across his cheekbones. Fingon leans into his hand, then turns to kiss the scar on the center of his palm. His eyes sting once more.

 _Enough of that_ , he thinks, and pulls Fingon into a kiss. Fingon's hands roam his skin, trace along the faded lash marks upon his front, slip down onto his side, and up along his crooked rib cage to thumb over a spot on his chest. He looks up at him, braids brushing across his collarbone: a question. Maedhros looks down.

“Ah,” he says, and looks back towards the ceiling. “I’m afraid not much feeling there remains.” He had forgotten the mangled scar tissue where a nipple might once have been. Fingon tugs his robe down further; he fights against the urge to cover himself.

“There is still some, then,” Fingon reasons, and then presses his mouth hot against his chest, fingers curving around his hip as his spine arches off the floor. His other nipple Fingon uncovers with great delight, and when he bites at it with a brush of his teeth he can’t stifle the gasp that slips past his lips, nor the way his arm trembles as he clings to Fingon’s braids.

 _It’s so much_ , he thinks, and then shoves that thought to the corner of his mind as Fingon begins to mouth down his stomach, the clasps of his hair threads clattering upon his skin like rain. _Too much_. Every touch feels as a blow, and every breath from Fingon’s lips as thunder echoing off the mountains. Time seems to slow as a hand brushes above his belt, and his eyes slip closed of their own accord, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

The touch of Fingon’s skin is suddenly grating, and his body feels clammy, and cold. _Put it aside_ , he thinks, and shudders as Fingon presses a kiss to the divot of his hip bone. _It is Fingon, it’s only Fingon_ , he reminds himself, and tries to relax the sudden tensing of his limbs, to uncurl his fingers from where they have tangled in the carpet, where his fingernails press into his palm like knives. _Enough_ , he thinks. _It is only a touch, and from Fingon. It should not feel as though– it should not feel, put it aside, think of something else–_

He hears Fingon say something, dimly as through a long tunnel. A warmth on his chest, above his heart. Fingon is saying something, he needs to–

“All right?” he hears, and then feels the soft kiss to his collarbone. Fingon shifts above him, and then the heat of him falls away. He takes a long breath, and another, trying to stop the trembling of his limbs, ignoring the sweat that drips down the back of his neck and into his hair pooled beneath him. _Put it aside,_ he thinks desperately.

“Maedhros,” Fingon says, and lifts his arm from his face. He hadn’t realised he had moved it. “What is wrong?” A pause. “Did I–”

“No,” he says, not knowing what Fingon was to say but aware that, whatever it may be, it is not any fault of Fingon’s. He takes another breath, and opens his eyes. Fingon looks down at him, anxiety etched across his face. His face grows warm, and he bites his lip. “It is just,” he hesitates, trying to think of the word. “Much,” he decides on after a moment, and curses his own foolishness.

"We can stop," suggests Fingon gently. Maedhros glares at him, and Fingon smiles. His hand is warm along his collarbone, thumb drifting idly across a thin scar he has discovered there. The touch is light, soothing, even, and he finds himself relaxing under Fingon’s gaze. _It is only Fingon,_ he thinks, but Fingon has never been _only_ anything, and so fond he looks then, with his eyes bright and his hair all askew– his fault– that, now that it seems he is allowed, Maedhros finds it quite necessary to tug him back towards his mouth.

Fingon’s lips are wary, and his fingers hover atop his skin. Under such thoughtful ministrations he feels the tension that had settled into his bones begin to melt away. He is grateful for the moment to collect himself. Is it not as though he does not desire it– the lacings of his trousers feel as though they might snap at any moment– but long has it been since he has been handled so thoroughly, at least handled so gently, and his nerves prickle and sting, branching up his chest at Fingon’s every touch as though they themselves are unsure of what to make of this new development. In that they are in agreement.

Fingon hums against his lips, and Maedhros opens his eyes to look at him whilst he does so. _Ah, but it_ is _Fingon_ , he thinks. The long curve of his eyelashes press against his cheekbone, and his brows dip in the middle, the very same expression, Maedhros realises, that he used to make as a child, unable to aim his bow without his tongue poking through his teeth. He quite thoroughly ruins the kiss with his own sudden amusement.

“Yes?” Fingon grumbles with his eyes still closed, and Maedhros just smiles wider, and laughs when Fingon huffs, and pulls back, shaking his braids about him.

“And what, might I ask, has amused you so thoroughly?”

“Nothing,” he says innocently, and Fingon purses his lips, to which he laughs once more and apologizes with a kiss. Fingon bites at his lower lip in retribution. At that, his hips arch without any thought of his own, and Fingon release his lip with a sharp inhale through his nose, and then presses his forehead against his own.

“May I–” he starts, and then interrupts himself to kiss him once more. He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot against his lips. “That is, we can stop if you so wish, of course, only–”

“No,” he says; his own choice. Once more marvels at how foreign it feels on his tongue. “No,” he says again just because he can, and curls his fingers into Fingon’s tunic. “I want,” he starts, and then frowns. Why is this so difficult?

“Yes?” Fingon prompts. The ties of his tunic dangle between them, and Maedhros eyes them with sudden inspiration. He swallows around a throat gone dry, and tugs lightly on one of the leather strands, transfixed by the strip of skin revealed to him by the action.

“Will you–?”

“Yes,” Fingon interrupts at once. “Yes,” he says again, quieter, and then kisses him once more before sitting back upon him, harder than perhaps intended. His hand flies to Fingon’s hip, and he is sure he does not imagine the hot flush of Fingon’s face, or the heaviness of his eyes as he rocks backward. Fingon’s brow furrows for a moment, and when he reaches for the ties of his tunic, his hands shake.

Never has Fingon shied away from admiring glances, but now he fumbles with his tunic and blushes as he gives up on the ties and drags it over his head. He cannot help but stare. Surely there exists no fairer sight in this world than the one atop his lap. Again, he wonders of the circumstances that led him to this moment. He sets his fingers over the curve of Fingon’s neck, down across his collar. He feels a rough line across his chest, and another, parallel to it, and one more, above. He leans closer to inspect it. It runs deep, faded as it curls around Fingon’s side. He taps it once with a frown.

“One of the creatures of the Ice,” Fingon says, and snatches his hand from where he had moved to pull away. Fingon presses his lips to his knuckles, and then sets them back upon his chest.

“Is that all you wished to touch?” Fingon asks lightly, and arches his back towards him. The firelight catches on his stomach, along the dark line of curls he sees there, and Maedhros needs no more encouragement to run his fingers along the middle of him, down to the edge of his trousers. The leather is tight, and the bulge he sees there unmistakeable. His mouth grows dry. He presses his palm against it, light as a feather.

“Russo,” Fingon gasps, and grabs at the rumpled fabric of his outer robe. Fingon's hands still shake, so Maedhros grabs the one that he can and pulls him tight against him. Fingon kisses him hard, and when Maedhros rocks his hips upward Fingon makes a rough sound from the back of his throat, and fumbles between them until his hand lies heavy upon his belt.

“May I,” he asks, and Maedhros cannot remember hearing him quite so desperate, save for in a half-remembered daze long ago. Fingon’s thumb slips below the leather, and Maedhros shudders. “Please,” Fingon says, and then “– I want to,” and then, voice wavering, “would you allow me to–”

There is something very strange in being asked permission so thoroughly, and he allows himself a moment to revel in it, and then squeezes Fingon’s fingers, and nods. Fingon wastes no time, and with no further ceremony, unbuckles his belt, slips his hand under his laces of his trousers and wraps his hand tight about his cock.

He remembers the last time he touched himself so– a warm night in Formenos, not long before the Darkening. How he had thought of Fingon whilst stretched across rumpled sheets, and the shame he felt as he let his hand wander and drift between the ties of his robe. How the son of his Father’s enemy was a gasp on his lips, and his name muffled into the fabric of his pillow as he shook.

But Fingon’s touch is hot and eager, and the only shame he feels now is at how foolish he once was for ever thinking that Fingon is someone for whom he should hide his admiration, and so he rocks into Fingon’s fingers with a moan, fingers clawing at the leather upon his thigh.

"Russo," Fingon says wonderingly, and drags his fingertips lightly up the side of him. He feels Fingon's hand trapped against his trousers, the angle awkward but perfect all the same. Fingon leans down hard upon him to kiss the gasp from his lips, his unoccupied hand slipping between them, fumbling at his laces.

"Yes," he breathes as Fingon pulls him from his trousers. " _Ah_ , Finno–"

Fingon moves from his lips down his chest once more, and Maedhros clutches at his braids, tugging hard as Fingon presses a kiss to a scar down his stomach. He strokes him, pressing another kiss along the thick red line, lower this time, and then looks at him with eyes so dark the warm brown has all but disappeared.

"May I?" he asks once more, and his voice is low, and strained.

"Yes," he says again; he knows not what Fingon will do but his lips have forgotten how to say anything else. Fingon hums against his skin, pleased, and mouths downward, and then lower still, until finally he realises what he intends.

 _Do not look_ , he thinks desperately, _if you look it will be over_. Fingon's mouth closes hot about him, and it takes all of his remaining will not to jerk his hips up into the wet heat of him. Fingon’s thumb lies gentle upon his hip, and his other tight about the base of his cock, and when he bobs his head and drags his tongue up the underside, Maedhros bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

Fingon’s fingers draw lines of fire down the side of his hip bone, through tufts of copper hair until they curl about the inside of his thigh. His legs part without prompting, and Fingon moans about him, braids falling over his shoulder and landing heavy upon his thigh. He looks down to move them out of Fingon’s way, and when he twists them about his palm Fingon looks up at him with eyes so full of heat he drops his head back as if burned. He shudders, and tenses.

There he remains on the precipice, hips rocking upwards with every dip of Fingon’s head, until Maedhros finally curses, and curls his fingers tight in Fingon’s braids.

"Fingon," he chokes. His arm trembles, and when Fingon massages the inside of his thigh he lets his braids drop in favor of tearing at the rug, biting his own forearm to stop from crying out. If he could only just–

Fingon pulls off of him then with a wet kiss to his cock, and strokes his hand over the slick length of him. "Look at me," he commands hoarsely.

Maedhros peels his right arm away from his eyes with great effort, hardly noticing the loud crack of his shoulder, and looks. Fingon’s eyes are dark, and a flush has spread from his face down his chest, all the way to the bulge in his trousers. The shine on his mouth catches on the firelight as Fingon licks his lips, and the sight sends another spike of heat straight to his cock. His desperation takes on a hint of despair as he lingers there, trapped by Fingon’s eyes but unable to tip over the edge. Perhaps he was right, perhaps he is no longer capable of–

Fingon leans close once more, hand firm between them as he presses his lips to his neck. “Russo,” he says. “Let go.” An order, voiced low in his ear.

The words hit him as a blow to the chest. He tenses, and spills hot over Fingon’s hand, his choked gasp pressed into the curve of Fingon’s ear.

As he lies there upon the rug, he has not a single thought in his mind save for how, in this moment, he is utterly painless. It lingers on the edge of his mind, but is muffled as if through a pool of deep water, and does not yet settle back into his limbs. He had forgotten the feeling of existing without discomfort, and basks in its simplicity while the moment lasts. Dimly he becomes aware of Fingon’s pleased hum, of his soft lips pressing to his ear, his jaw, and then to his cheekbone, which he now realises is wet. Fingon’s thumb swipes at the trail down the side of his cheek, and Maedhros blinks his eyes open into one exceedingly smug smile. He perhaps should be embarrassed, but he cannot find the energy to care, so languid his limbs and so utterly in love he is in this moment.

“Yes,” he says with a sniff. “I know, I’m terribly embarrassing.”

Fingon laughs, quiet and fond, and leans down to kiss him. Maedhros can taste himself on his lips, and that should not satisfy him as it does, nor, winded as he is, should it send another flush of heat straight through him.

“That I already knew. But look! I have discovered another secret of yours as well,” says Fingon, and reaches into the folds of his discarded robe to pull out a pile of cards with a triumphant flourish. Maedhros snorts.

“How did those get there, I wonder?” he murmurs while wrapping his stump around Fingon’s back and tugging him close.

“You know quite well you bastard– oh–”

He trails his fingers from braid’s end down over the knobs of Fingon’s spine, all the way to the edge of his trousers, letting his thumb linger there a moment, marveling at the soft hairs along the dimple of his back. Fingon shudders, and he realises quite suddenly that he’s been quite remiss in his duties.

He pushes himself up on his stumped arm, ignoring the way his muscles buckle and shake. Fingon slides easily back upon his lap, and looks at him with such affection Maedhros cannot help but stare a moment in wonder. His hair is mused, braids twisting every which way, and he looks so beautiful there in the firelight that he must kiss him once more. His fingers follow the curve of his spine into the hem of his trousers. At that, Fingon’s thighs twitch, and Maedhros pulls back to lean his forehead against Fingon’s and cast his gaze over the planes of his chest.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, and delights in the way Fingon flushes from neck to navel. He moves his fingers along the line of his throat, down between pectoral and over the curve of his hip, marveling that Fingon would allow him this. The hair above the lacings of his trousers is dark and curled, and he sifts his fingers down through the fine texture of it, admiring the way Fingon curses, and how the lacings of his trousers are fit to burst.

He hesitates a moment– he has never done this before, despite how often the thought has crossed his mind– and then reaches for the leather ties, only for Fingon to grab at his wrist.

“You do not have to,” he says, and Maedhros frowns, staring at the stark contrast between their fingers.

“Do you not want..?” Did he misread the situation? It is ludicrous to think that anyone would want his misshapen hand upon them, perhaps Fingon only meant to–

Fingon makes a frustrated sound, and cups his face. “I do,” he says plainly, and leans into him, eyelashes fluttering. “I want you,” Fingon says slowly, and clearly. “But you must not feel– obligated, if you do not–”

“Finno,” he interrupts with no small amount of exasperation. Will the depths of Fingon’s selflessness never end? He kisses his lips, and then his jaw, behind his ear, and down his throat. “Would you deprive me of the sight of you?” he murmurs, and presses his lips to the goosebumps that appear on Fingon’s skin. “Long have I yearned to see you undone, will you now deny me?”

“Eru, _no_ ,” gasps Fingon, and tilts his head to the side so he might better fit his mouth to the underside of his jaw. “I will allow you anything.”

 _Dangerous_ , Maedhros thinks as he bites at the hollow of Fingon’s throat, and slips his hand back down his chest. He reaches for the laces again, but they were made for one with two hands, and his fingers are clumsy as he fumbles at the tight knot Fingon has made of them.

“Let me,” Fingon offers, and gently bats his hand away, though he does not fare much better, hands shaking as he tugs at the strings. Maedhros leans back to watch, and cannot resist pressing the heel of his palm against the hard length of him to hear Fingon’s moan. He squeezes his fingers, impatient. Fingon curses, lifts his hips, and, ignoring the laces entirely, shoves his trousers down about his thighs. His cock bobs between them, and Maedhros’ mouth goes dry at the sight of him.

“Fingon,” he murmurs, and runs his fingers lightly along the base of him, up the side to brush his thumb through the wetness pooling at its tip, and then smoothing it back down the side in an even glide. Fingon makes such a noise as he’s never heard then, and drops his head to his shoulder, hips twitching as he gasps. He pumps his hand so he might hear it again. Fingon’s fingers claw at his back, spine arching as he pants into his neck.

“Yes,” says Fingon, rocking his hips into the tight circle of his fingers. “Just like that, _oh_ , you are perfect–”

He had expected him to be loud, Fingon has never been one to let silences remain unfilled, but he had not prepared for the effect his words would have on him, how they would send a bolt of possessiveness through his chest, how they would make him flush and draw Fingon close against him so that only he might hear him, and no other.

“Finno,” he breathes, and smoothes his stumped arm up the knobs of his spine, regretting more than ever that he cannot run his fingers through his hair as he strokes him upon his lap, for what better use is there for a second hand than this? But Fingon arches his spine forward anyways, and presses an open-mouth kiss upon his temple as he clutches at his back.

He does not know what Fingon likes, but it is an endeavor he will happily commit the rest of his life to studying. Fingon deserves only the best, after all, and so now he experiments. He drifts his fingers down past the base of Fingon’s cock to brush against his balls, rolls them between his fingers and catalogues the way he shudders and grips at his neck. He slips his hand back further still, watching Fingon’s face intently as he drags a finger over the tight heat of him, just once. At that, Fingon jumps in surprise, gasping, and then tenses.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, and bends his spine towards him as Maedhros wraps his hand around him once more, taking in his expression with a greed never before felt. “I’m– _yes_ ,” he says, and then, desperately, “Russo–”

He tugs Fingon close to feel his choked breath upon his lips, feels his cock pulse and jump, and then he spills over his fingers, thick and hot upon his hand. He strokes him through it, gently pumping his fingers until Fingon slumps against his chest.

A log shifts in the fireplace as they breathe together a moment, and then Fingon tips them over with a pleased hum. Fingon’s fingers are sticky as they drift over a scar on his chest and the bead of one of his braids carves a divot in his collarbone, but he cannot bring himself to mind, instead turning his head to the side to let his lips rest along the ridge of Fingon’s brow, breathing in the smell of cloves and allowing himself a moment to simply exist, here with Fingon.

At length he wipes his hand on Fingon’s discarded tunic, ignoring Fingon’s muffled protest as he shifts his good arm out from under him. Fingon lifts his head from his neck to glare at him, but the effect is ruined by his smile, so shy and sweet that Maedhros cannot help but trace the dimple of his cheeks with his fingers, and feel his eyes sting once more when Fingon presses a kiss to the raised scar of his palm. _Enough of that,_ he tells himself. He does have a reputation to maintain, though Fingon seems to care not one whit.

“Ai,” Fingon breaks the silence with a soft cry of dismay. “Is that– in my _braids_. Maedhros.”

Maedhros blinks at him innocently. “I would have prevented it, but my hand was preoccupied.”

“Alas,” says Fingon solemnly, and then he laughs. “Next time remind me to tie my hair back, lest I have to shave off the whole lot.”

Maedhros tugs at his braid protectively, fingering the bauble on the end with alarm. Then he stills. “Next time,” he repeats weakly, stomach churning with something he does not dare to name.

“Yes,” Fingon confirms, quiet and sure, and when he presses him back into the rug he does not think to worry: of what has happened, or of what might come to pass, or of what he may or may not deserve. Nor even does he think of the marred planes of his skin and how they might look grotesque in the shadows of the fading firelight. Instead he lets Fingon rub their noses together without complaint, and lets the sound of Fingon’s breathless laughter lull him to complacency until he knows nothing but a deep contentedness long thought lost to him, and an all-encompassing warmth.

–––

The metal of Fingon’s boots clatters as they walk, the sound echoing across the stones in the quiet stillness of the dawn. The storm had passed in the night; the snow is plush in its banks against the walls of the keep, and the air crisp and fresh. It’s early yet, but Fingon has delayed as much as is responsible to do so, and then as much as can be plausibly explained, and then more still, so depart he must.

He looks at him now and, unable to help himself, drags his gaze down the smooth line of his neck, remembering how it felt beneath his lips. As if sensing his thoughts, Fingon catches his eye, and almost he stifles his open appreciation before realising that there is no point. There is no one about to bear witness save Fingon, and if he has not been made aware of his affection for him at this point, he worries for the state of the realm that its crowned prince can lead their armies without eyes. Fingon smiles at him with just a hint of mischief, glancing about before leaning back against the wall and reaching for his hand. He tugs him forward into his arms; easily, he follows.

“It will be long since next I lay eyes on you,” Fingon says mournfully, and brushes his thumb over his gloved knuckles. “Will you write to me? Properly, I mean.”

“Have I ever given reason to doubt my due diligence? Tax reports are sent with every new moon.”

Maedhros intercepts Fingon’s whack to his arm, instead pulling his hand to his chest with a laugh. He hesitates a moment, and when Fingon does not pull away he ducks his head and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“The ravens dislike flying in the snow,” he says haltingly, and then remembers. “Ah, but I might have a more elegant solution, when next we meet. Curufin assures me they are almost in working order, but he will need all of us to rework their Harmony, and trying to organize a proper gathering of us all will take time, if the ravens can find my brothers at all.” He sighs. “Telvo is rarely seen within his own keep, and if I would command the presence of Tyelko I am better off sending word with the hounds.”

“Harmonies?” Fingon asks vaguely, and then his eyes light up. “The Palantíri? You’ve brought them?”

“We have,” he confirms, and then hesitates. “They will be a great asset in this war, if utilized properly.”

“Or improperly,” Fingon says while waggling his eyebrows. Maedhros tugs at his collar.

“There is no way to isolate an Ósanwe amongst the Palantíri,” he says, eyeing the long vee of Fingon’s tunic with great regret. “Unfortunately.”

“Alas,” laughs Fingon, and tugs him closer. “Once more I shall have to rely once more on naught but my love for you to warm me when Winter’s nights are longest.”

Maedhros goes still. The ache from before has returned, spearing through his chest and up into his throat, and finally, he understands what it means. What a fool he is.

“Maedhros?” Fingon questions, and then cups his cheek. “Russo? You cannot have not known,” Fingon says, incredulous. “Tell me you knew.”

“Of course,” he replied, strained. He had known, of course, he did know, he _does_ know, but still, to hear the words given so plainly–

“I climbed Thangorodrim for you.”

“Yes, but that was not–”

“And I would do it again, a thousand times over,” Fingon says, and then raises to the tips of his toes, and kisses him. “Because I love you.”

Maedhros ducks his head, and lets himself be kissed once more. He does not deserve Fingon’s love, no, that is quite clear, but Fingon does not seem to care for what he may or may not deserve, and so he resigns himself to his fate, both with trepidation, and resolve.

Fingon’s hand rests behind his neck, and Maedhros lets himself follow suit, pressing their foreheads together and smiling at the quiet chime of Fingon’s hair ornaments as he twists a braid about his finger. He swallows against the tightness of his throat, letting his eyes slip closed as the harsh bite of morning’s chill gives way to Fingon’s warmth.

“Whatever is left of me is yours,” he says after a moment. That, at least, is a truth easily admitted. Whatever remains after the Pit, and after the Oath, is Fingon’s, and has always been Fingon’s, in truth. Fingon stares at him a moment, and then pulls back with a pained smile.

“You would give me everything?” he asks, twisting his remaining fingers between his own with a frown.

“It’s mine to give,” he says, and does not think of a time when those words did not ring true. He clears his throat. “Though be careful with those, if you please. Should I lose the other hand, the one who would suffer most would surely be yourself.”

“Aye, that’s so,” Fingon says with a laugh, and presses a kiss to the worst of his scars on the back of his hand. He is so beautiful, here in the light of morning, set against the stark brightness of the fresh snow. Maedhros swallows, and squeezes his fingers. He wishes he had not worn his glove. Perhaps they might have time, if they are quick–

A clatter of armor down the hallway. Familiar footsteps, heavy upon the stone. Arderthor, surely, and the rest of Fingon’s guard. He pulls away with great reluctance, and flexes his fingers against the sudden cold. Fingon takes a breath, and straightens his shoulders, adjusting the clasp of his cloak with a frown. Maedhros nods towards the courtyard and Fingon nods in return, following at his side as they make towards his horse.

“I will see you at my father’s counsel, once the ice thaws.” A statement, not a question.

“I will be there,” he promises dutifully, and fights with the urge to take Fingon into his arms once more as he mounts his horse with an easy grace. Fingon’s guard fill in behind him; the gates groan as they open towards the upper wall. It’s late into the morning, almost mid-day; to delay any more would be irresponsible. They both have their duties.

Maedhros chest aches once more, a tug behind his ribs, though this time the cause is quite clear.

“Farewell, then,” says his Prince, and when he casts his gaze over him once more it does not feel as an inspection, but as a caress, warm and fond. Fingon nods once to himself, and then smiles, wide and bright. Yavanna’s icy grief is early yet, but it will not be so long until it eases once more and the snows melt enough to allow passage Westward. He counted hundreds of Arien’s journeys atop the Mountain, perhaps thousands, and compared to that, this is nothing.

He will bear it, because he must. Maedhros bows low.

“Farewell,” he says softly, and with another long look and a clenching of his jaw, Fingon turns his horse about with a squeeze of his knees, trotting through the gate without a backwards glance, braids snapping out behind him as a banner in the wind. The light of the sun lingers upon his shoulders, turning silver pauldron to gleaming white-gold, and for a moment it’s as though he carries Laurelin with him, burning bright from within.

He makes his way atop the gates to watch until Fingon’s form grows small in the distance. When at last he disappears around the edge of the mountain, Maedhros lets out a long breath, and squares his shoulders. After a moment, he looks to the sky, and lets out a sharp whistle.

A disgruntled raven lands atop the wall near his hand, feathers puffed outwards to combat the cold. He reaches out, and smiles when she hops onto his arm. He draws her in close, murmuring under his breath to soothe her ruffled feathers, and then, a command: “ _Á hilyas. Nanwenyë itë tuvuvalyë tarastië._ ” The raven pecks at his hand in chastisement– he has no meal to offer her, not today– but lets out an affirming caw, and with a flap of her wings, lifts off into the sky, heading West.

What’s one more Winter? They’ve been apart for longer, and in circumstances far more dire. But the months before him seem vast, just then, and when he climbs down the steps towards the courtyard, though he is surrounded by Himring’s guards watching atop the walls, and though the staff bustles about the inner yard, he observes it with a quiet detachment; an outside observer, silent, and alone.

 _It is no matter_ , he thinks, and heads for the keep. There is no time for such thoughts. They are at war, and there is much to do.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

>  _Á hilyas. Nanwenyë itë tuvuvalyë tarastië_ \- “Follow him. If anything happens, return to me.”
> 
> Thank you [absynthe--minded](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel) for the translation! And for translating actual borscht into quenya for me. You saved me 40 years of Quenya studying. If you want some canon-compliant Russingon go check out [Blessed Hands Will Break Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20244364), it is absolutely phenomenal.
> 
> Title loosely based on a poem by Anne Bradstreet called _The Vanity Of All Worldly Things_.
> 
> Please also check out the [ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL COMMISSION](https://mallornblossom.tumblr.com/post/611234025314615296/for-mc-dude) I had done by Tumblr user mallornblossom (who draws Fingo with the best nose of all time) from the rooftop scene. I stare at it every day it's so wonderful 😍


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